“It’s her blood, not mine,” Vittorio explained. He wanted to be alone to look at his phone. He was going to find Haydon Phillips, the name the Ferraros’ investigator, Rosina, had sent to him, and he was going to kill him. He brought justice to all kinds of criminals. The rule had been drilled into him over and over: Never let it be personal. This was as personal as it was going to get.
The nurse indicated a small private bathroom off a waiting room that wasn’t open to the public. The Ferraro family had contributed several million dollars toward the hospital, a wing and equipment. They were kept out of the public eye when they were there. Most of the time they managed to fly under the radar of the paparazzi unless a nurse or orderly sold them out. One photo was often worth thousands of dollars.
When he came out of the private restroom, his sister, Emmanuelle, was waiting for him. She rushed to him, waited until he tore off the bloody shirt and replaced it with the one she’d brought him, and then hugged him tightly. “Vittorio. You could have been shot. Why would that horrible toad want to shoot you when you saved his life?”
He tightened his arms around her, taking comfort in her presence. “I’m okay, honey. Grace ran between us just as I was turning around. She took the bullet, not me. Phillips wanted her to pay his gambling debts and I interfered. That’s the short version.”
“But you can’t deal with men like Sarto or Gori. Everyone knows that.”
“Phillips believed Sarto wouldn’t shoot him, that it was all for effect, so she’d go with Saldi’s men.”
“I can’t believe they would do such a thing. Stefano told me what they were there for. It’s disgusting.”
He was grateful she didn’t protest. She had crushed on Valentine Saldi, Giuseppi’s adopted son, since she was sixteen years old and they’d had an on-again, off-again relationship for some time. Vittorio was certain Emmanuelle genuinely loved him, which was too bad. The relationship had been doomed from the start. Her brothers had tried to tell her, tried to protect her, but until recently, she hadn’t listened to them. His heart ached for her. He could see the genuine sorrow and distress in her eyes.
“Yes, it is. They were blatant about being in the club, Emme. How they got in without any of us being told, or how Haydon slipped through, I have no idea.”
“Tell me about her,” Emme invited. “When did you meet her? Stefano says you’re claiming her as your fiancée. Rosina is sending us information as fast as she gets it so we can answer any questions posed to us by the police or anyone else.”
Vittorio rubbed his chest. He still felt her there. Deep. Her voice had opened something soft in him that had been locked away. “Tonight was the first time I ever laid eyes on her. She was . . . unexpected.”
“Are you certain she’s the one?” Emme whispered. “Do you just know it, Vittorio? In your soul, where you live, do you just know?”
He glanced down at her sharply, his gaze moving over her face. He nodded slowly because she deserved an answer, especially when tears swam in her eyes and the family of the man she loved was involved in kidnapping and forcing a woman into prostitution.
“She’s the one. I never thought it would be possible. I’d just been thinking that, looking around the club at all the women, knowing there wasn’t one out there that would suit me . . . and maybe there isn’t. Maybe she’s a rider and she would be good for someone other than me. I’m not so . . . lovable.”
“Don’t say that.” Emme’s defense of him was fierce. “Don’t ever say that, Vittorio, because it isn’t true.”
“I love you, honey,” Vittorio said. He pulled away from her and looked at the woman waiting so patiently for him to give her details about his fiancée. “I claimed her, but she doesn’t have a clue who I am. If she knows about the Ferraros . . .”
“Everyone knows about our family or they’ve been living off planet,” Emmanuelle quipped. “She knows. She might not care, but she knows.”
“I’m no bargain, Emme. I need things from a woman most men don’t. She stood up to those men.” He found himself smiling at the memory of her flying out of the trunk of the car, straight at Haydon. “That red hair of hers is natural.”
“Good for her.”
“Yeah. Good for her.” He’d loved that she’d fought back, that she was no pushover. That wasn’t what he wanted in a woman, but maybe it was what he needed.
Hell, he didn’t know. Right now, all he felt was sick inside, his guts twisted into vicious knots. He’d done his best to keep her alive, his hands in that mess that had been her shoulder, trying to stem the tidal wave of blood.