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The moment of choice didn’t rise in his memory. Instead, he remembered how Vespa’s hand had trembled against his chest as she shot someone aiming at him in the hallway. What he’d done made them even, but he didn’t feel even at all.
“You look like shit. You’re showing the pain.” Enzo nodded to the side table. “Take another pill and close your damn eyes. It’ll all keep.”
Antonio swallowed the extra painkiller dry. Another question was on his lips, but this one wouldn’t get voiced. Asking his uncle whether Vespa had checked up on him would only give the man more ammunition.
Chapter 20
When Vespa eyed the Di Salvos hanging out at the entrance of their estate, she was glad she was armed. It made her feel less insecure, although she doubted she’d need her guns.
The first few soldiers let her pass without talking to her. Which was a problem. How was she supposed to find Antonio without asking? Asking felt stupid.
Vespa hated feeling stupid and considered turning around altogether. Antonio was probably fine. She should have texted or called, but it was difficult for her to text, and phone calls always made her anxious. She was expected to talk, but she couldn’t tell what the other person was thinking. It was frustrating.
When a soldier blocked her path, she was almost relieved, but then he didn’t say anything.
She scowled at him, ready to shake off some nerves. “Either move or say something,” she snapped.
“We weren’t told a Coronella would be coming by,” he said with a shrug.
He wasn’t wrong.
Vespa huffed out a breath as her scowl faded. “We wanted to check up on Antonio.” She winced, wondering when she had become a ‘we,’ though Montrell and Beatrice would care. Antonio had been there to help them out, and he’d taken the bullet meant for Montrell.
It still pissed Vespa off.
She scowled again, making the soldier’s expression harden in return.
“He’ll live. That update enough?” the man asked.
“Not really.” Heat climbed Vespa’s neck. She was bumbling this badly. “Look, I just want to—”
“Vespa?” Nera asked from behind the soldier.
Vespa’s eyes cut to her. Nera stood in the entryway to the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. Her bodyguard, the one who’d raised her, or so Vespa had heard, stood beside her.
Vespa realized how close she’d gotten to the kitchen. The soldier that had stopped her was doing his job. “Hey, Nera,” she muttered, her good hand reaching back to close around her bun. She almost wished Antonio’s sister-in-law hadn’t seen her. There were questions in Nera’s eyes, and besides, Vespa got nervous around pregnant women. Nera’s belly was beginning to stick out some, but even Vespa realized that wasn’t polite to say.
“Come on in,” Nera said with a wave. “I’m just finishing up breakfast.”
Vespa didn’t understand Nera’s desire to bake. Giulia liked to cook, too, and had roped Vespa into doing enough of it over the years for her to realize she hated it. Lots of waiting and stirring. The measuring wouldn’t have been half bad if it’d been logical, but she still didn’t know what the hell a pinch was. It seemed to differ with every use of the term.
She nodded to the soldier, who stepped aside, appreciating that he’d done his job. He hadn’t let her get too close to the kitchen, which was fair. The level of stability in an alliance tended to be mixed. “I can’t stay,” she said to Nera, even though she had no pressing commitments. “I just wanted to check on Antonio since he got himself hurt helping the Coronellas.”
“The doctor finally finished with him. Giovanni told me he was resting,” Nera said, moving in front of a pan of something.
“The doc only now finished?” Vespa asked, her gut twisting. It was already the next day. “So it was bad?” He’d been lucid when she’d last seen him and irritated enough that she hadn’t been worried. She frowned down at the croissant Nera was plating.
“He didn’t get as lucky as I did when I was shot,” Nera said.
Vespa lifted her eyes. “I didn’t realize you were shot.” Vespa remembered her own wound. It’d been a bitch, torn muscle and everything, but the recovery had been more annoying than painful. Vespa had a high tolerance for pain, though. Being beaten often as a child would do that to you.
Nera’s hands paused as her eyes went distant. “My gunshot was like yours—Bratva-instigated. It healed well enough and was barely more than a scratch, I’m realizing now.” Her fingers pushed at the edge of the plate the croissant sat on. “Antonio’s was a bit more involved.”
Cold creeped into Vespa’s fingers, the ones hanging over the end of her own sling. “Tell me he’ll still have use of the arm,” she mumbled.
Nera’s eyes flew to hers. She smiled, which let Vespa breathe again, and reached out to pat her good arm. “Oh, it’s not that bad. They had to dig the bullet out, and he’ll have to wear a cast for a while.”
That meant the bone had fractured. Vespa scowled down at the plate again.
