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“Please, Corrado, let me drive so you can rest. Are you shot? Stabbed? What’s wrong with you?” When he won’t answer, I shout, “Tell me!”
At my tone, Corrado swerves to the side and hits the brakes. The car practically screams to a stop.
“What’s wrong with me?” He turns in his seat, hazel eyes ablaze. “I come home to find out my wife isn’t home like she told me she would be. Not only that, she left her phone on the couch. That was on purpose, wasn’t it?”
He pauses, then lifts a palm. “Wait, don’t answer that. I know it was. Then, I make a few calls and find out my wife went to a club where I know shit’s about to go down tonight. When I get there, shit’s already going down, and my wife is being used as a shield.”
“Things went crazy. I didn’t mean for it to all go crazy.”
“I understand, but you ditched your security detail.”
I swallow. “They were just outside the door. Besides, I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I just wanted to go out for a night.”
Corrado clenches his jaw. “We need to get out of the city as fast as possible.”
A wave of nausea hits my belly, but before I vomit all over the leather dash and myself, I open the door and bend over. As I throw up, my brain conjures an image of Dom’s twitching feet. His leather shoe had blood on it. His or Corrado’s?
“Here,” Corrado says, offering me a bottle of water after I close the door. “Your adrenaline is wearing off, and it’s near midnight.”
“Way past my bedtime,” I say.
“Way past your bedtime.” A small smile plays on his lips as he drives us away from the city.
37
THE SAFE HOUSE
MICHELA
Once my adrenaline wore off, I must’ve crashed and napped, because the engine shutting off jars me awake. Corrado’s already walking up to the house. I peer out the window, and since it’s the dead of night, I can’t see much besides the outline of a large roof limned in moonlight. I follow Corrado inside.
He turns on the lights.
It’s a Georgian-style home dominated by neoclassical designs reminiscent of Greek and Roman styles complete with cornices on the ceilings, walls, and doorways.
Corrado passes between the columns, and I trail behind him, stepping almost immediately into the living area filled with black and off-white furniture. A few beige touches, mainly the picture frames on the walls and subtle vintage lighting that comes on when Corrado finds the switches, warms up the space.
The kitchen is lovely, mostly black, matching the living space. Corrado moves the knife holder on the counter from the corner to the center, then props his phone against it. He must’ve dialed, because a man’s voice comes on the line.
“Hello,” the man says.
Corrado rips off his jacket and shirt, and that’s when I see it. A hole in his side.
When I move toward him, he glares, and I stop on the other side of the kitchen bar.
“Is it serious?” he asks the man on the line. I presume the camera is open since Corrado is turning around with his arms held out, his expression turned into a scowl. “Motherfucker!” Corrado shouts. It jolts me wide awake, and I step back.
He slams his palms on the marble. “I want them all…” He glances at me and shakes his head, pressing his lips tightly together, clearly stopping whatever order he was about to bark at the man. He won’t talk in front of me.
He doesn’t trust you.
“I won’t tell a soul,” I whisper.
“Who is with you?” the man asks.
“My wife.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
