He could have sworn they weren’t followed to the pier earlier.
It was instinct to pay attention to any car that seemed to be consistently going the same direction. None had, or else it had been done so skillfully he hadn’t caught it, and that was unlikely.
What did it mean?
Not sure.
Maybe her cell phone had a passenger. The evolution of tracking devices was ongoing, and he had contacts that kept up with the latest, but there was always something brewing in yet another devious brain.
He chose a pizza place that was appropriately casual a few blocks from the hospital and ushered her inside. Without being obvious, he tried to decipher her expression. Then he ordered a carafe of Chianti and a pepperoni, black olive, and green pepper pizza without asking what she preferred, because he was pretty sure she didn’t care. He waited until the waiter brought the glasses and their wine before saying anything to her.
She still looked stricken but not quite so shell-shocked. Nick poured her a glass, handed it over, and asked succinctly, “Can we go over this again? Who wants you dead?”
* * *
The man had a way with words.
A very straightforward way.
Reign was willing to go out on a limb and say a date with Nick Fattelli was pretty much an adventure every single time.
The restaurant was quiet and low-key, and it smelled of oregano and Parmesan. She was still shaken from the shooting and had to consciously take a deep breath before she picked up her wineglass. “I don’t know.”
At least the wine was smooth and mellow. Good choice. Her hand shook just a little, and some wine splashed out, but otherwise she thought she’d been pretty calm, considering.
She said carefully, “They shot Sal.”
The booth was actually very comfortable, even if it was hardly the most upscale place, and the jukebox in the corner was playing some sort of oldie. But she felt safe, and that was pretty important at the moment. Only because Nick was there, and maybe that was an illusion. This man sitting across the table, who was he? Complex, that was certain. Safe? Debatable.
“Oh yeah, they did.” Nick would never be a man to deal with less than the stark truth, she’d known that the moment she met him. “But, given what happened the night we met, do we both agree they were probably aiming for you? It takes some skill to shoot from a moving boat. They missed. He lost. They could have been gunning for you. I am not sure how often it happens in your life, but the sudden frequency of flying bullets your direction does send up flags.”
As if she didn’t already feel incredibly guilty. Sal had lost, but hopefully not his life. “You’ve shot at someone from a moving boat, Fattelli?”
“I’ve done a number of interesting things.” He sat back, wineglass in hand, his face shadowed. “It’s been established you know what I stand for.”
The closest he’d come to admitting it.
“Assassin?”
“Hey, let’s not get sophisticated. I’ve never said that.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.”
In the end Nick was faintly amused. She could see it even in the inadequate light of the fake stained-glass fixtures. “Look, as awful as the evening turned out, I’m not actually involved in all of this. Don’t blame me.”
He had a point. Nick had been helpful, calm, and in command. Good man in a crisis—then again, a normal crisis didn’t involve the victims of gunshot wounds, but in his life, maybe it did.
“No.” She had to agree. Reign took a drink. The wine was truly Italian and delicious, but she was worried about Sal … and Nick was infuriatingly right: she couldn’t do anything at this point to help him.
Her grandmother had an old saying: “Misfortune comes in by the door left ajar.”
What door is open? She looked at the man sitting across from her. “What do you think is happening?”
“Unfortunately, someone wants to kill you.”
“I can’t see how it would benefit anyone.” She was genuinely bewildered. Reign set her hands on the plastic placemat that had an exaggerated picture of a plate of spaghetti and took a calm minute to think. “Revenge on my father? Okay, I get it, but he’s in prison. Surely that’s revenge enough for anyone. Sal was right when he said we shouldn’t inherit the sins of our fathers.”
“Maybe so, but the trouble with this game is you don’t get to write the rules. You want it to be fair. It isn’t, sweetheart.”
When she pictured Salvatore crumpling to the deck, a bloody hand to his stomach, she didn’t really view this as a game. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are.” Nick leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He’d put his tailored jacket back on but still didn’t have a shirt, and with her bloodstained dress, they had to make some pretty interesting patrons, even if it was getting late and the place was dark and only one other table was occupied. “You’re trying to make sense of it. Quit that. So far this seems to be coming at you blind and we need to figure out why, and more importantly, who. I promise, you know who it is. No one goes to this much trouble after a casual target. Doesn’t happen.”
Okay, he had a point, but he also had a disturbing habit of being able to handle volatile situations with this sort of pragmatic approach. It was fine if you were on his side, but she’d hate to be on the other end.
Reign just didn’t have an answer. Considering the family feud, she might have said before this that Sal’s family would be the first candidate, but they would never have shot him.
“I don’t know.” It was an honest answer.
The arrival of their food stopped the discussion and she was surprisingly hungry, so maybe Nick was right. New York–style pizza, with a thin crust that could be folded and a glass of wine … it wasn’t like she wanted a lot, but she did manage to eat some, and he’d nailed it in that she felt better afterward. The wine didn’t hurt either.
Smart guy.
No, wise guy.
Her whole life she’d tried to avoid just this sort of man. Reign looked at him across the table. “You aren’t good for me.”
Nick looked unfazed. He took another piece of pizza. “You have it entirely wrong. The real question is, are we good together?”
“In bed we are.”
“I won’t argue that one. Not a bad place to start from my point of view.”
Reign sighed. “I’m too worried about Sal right now to get into a deep philosophical discussion about male/female relationships and how they work. We’ve recently met, and it seems like two of the evenings we’ve spent together have turned out to be pretty interesting, and not in a good way.”
“I know. Let me settle this up and we’ll go find out how he’s doing.” He stood, tall in the dim lighting, his face all angles and shadows. “You do realize they probably won’t tell you anything. They’ll talk to his family, and from what I now understand, his family is unlikely to pass the information on to you.”
He was right, damn him. Reign murmured, “But maybe to you. How do you know Sal’s family well enough to get an invitation to a party on their yacht?”
He dropped enough bills on the table that the waitress was going to be a very happy person. “Through my father. Shall we go?”
Okay, he didn’t want to talk about his family. It was there in the clipped tone of his voice. Fine. She got it. There were bits of her past she didn’t want to discuss either, especially her ex-husband. Family was family, and keeping it private was important.
“Yes. Thanks.”
The least she could say.
“For dinner? My pleasure.”
“No, not for dinner.” She set her hand on his arm. “For giving a shit about how I feel about this situation. About another guy. You’re being very nice.”
His blue eyes were hard to read, but he looked at her directly, and she liked that. “I do give a shit, Ms. Reign Supreme. I’m not positive I want to, but I give a shit. But never, ever make the mistake of thinking I’m nice.”
She walked out into the parking lot and looked over h
er shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t make that sort of mistake.”
Chapter
TEN
Machines were beeping, but he expected that, even as he roused from a sleep that was hardly refreshing, the muscles in his stomach tightening as he instinctively tried to sit up.
Bad idea.
Right. Shot twice. Sal winced as he relaxed back down and remembered the evening. Shot in front of Reign. Not ideal. There he’d been, trying to be smooth and persuasive, and then out of the blue, two bullets ruined the effect.
“Good morning.” The voice was low and modulated, an alto not a soprano, and the person speaking picked up a chart hanging from the foot of the bed and flipped through the pages. Light blue scrubs, brown hair in a ponytail, and honey-colored eyes. She glanced at him. “I’m Dr. Altea. How are you feeling?”
He suddenly wished, even in his incapacitated state, that he wasn’t wearing a hospital gown. So maybe he wasn’t quite dead yet. “Like someone shot me in the shoulder and the stomach.”
“Well then, from your chart, we are on the same page. What a coincidence. Any nausea?”
“Now or when it happened? I don’t like the sight of blood much, so when I think back on it, maybe a little.”
He adjusted the bed, looked at the attached sacks of fluid and the tubes running into his arm, and briefly closed his eyes. The thing about hospitals was the smell. He could do without it.
The doctor was much more matter-of-fact. She said, “Mr. Ariano, I’m serious. The shoulder injury was clean, but the wound to your abdomen nicked the colon. It was a surprisingly easy repair, but we need to watch you closely and I very much want you to keep me in the loop on how you are feeling. This is not the time to grit your teeth and not complain.” She flipped over a page and frowned. “You did have some alcohol in your system, but not much.”
“I was standing on the deck of my parents’ yacht during a cocktail party. I wasn’t driving the boat either. Give me a break. I’d had a drink or two. Not against the law.”
“Yes, I recognized the last name.” Dr. Altea hung up the chart. “But I was actually about to congratulate you on being so conservative. The surgery would have been a lot more dangerous if you were intoxicated.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get shot again.”
Finally she cracked a smile, and she was quite pretty, even if it was in a wholesome way that was more Midwestern country girl than anything else, as she moved around the bed and took his pulse. She took out her stethoscope and listened to his chest. “Your parents are outside, but I wanted to see you first and confirm you are up for visitors.”
He wasn’t sure.
“For the record, a visit with my mother can send a person to the hospital even if they haven’t recently been shot.”
She smiled at his dry tone. “Shall I tell them ten minutes is the time limit of their stay?”
“God bless you.” After a brief hesitation, he said, “Doctor, is anyone else waiting to see me?”
“Long dark hair? Very striking?”
“Yes.” His voice sounded hoarse.
The doctor opened the door to his room but leaned back in as she was leaving and said with a conspiratorial air, “She was here most of the night in the waiting area, and I advised her to go home because she wasn’t going to get to see you. I have every confidence she’ll be back.”
Had to be Reign.
He was an idiot, but it made him happy. “When she returns, please let her see me?”
“I’ll let the nurses know.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
God, he felt weak, and there were about fifteen tubes coming out of him, the catheter being the worst of it. The idea of someone handling his dick while he was unconscious didn’t thrill him, but at least he was alive. That second bullet had almost done the job.
And he was left wondering why.
He didn’t really dabble in the family business. True, he was in law school so he could be useful to his father, uncles, cousins—he’d started out with an accounting degree for just that purpose. It was just that he couldn’t see how he’d made an enemy that powerful without his father hearing about it.
It really wasn’t a surprise his mother had at some point gone home and changed her clothes from the flowing long dress she’d worn on the boat. Her hair hung in perfect symmetry just at her jawline and was a carefully colored deep auburn shade—not her natural hue. Even her makeup was flawless, and she carried a purse that he was fairly sure had cost thousands of dollars.
In general they got along, but he had no illusions. First of all, he’d ruined her party by getting shot, and secondly, he was pretty sure his relationship with Reign—wait, his former relationship with Reign—was now obvious.
This just was not going to be the best conversation of his life, so it was better to take the initiative.
“Do you know why?” He directed the question at his father, who had walked in with a grim expression behind his mother. “Because I’m fairly certain it was not about anything I’ve done.”
“There’s nothing on the street.” His father shook his head. In his youth he’d also been blond, but his hair had gone to gray; he’d kept himself fairly fit and was a scratch golfer. If there was a connection in New York City or Jersey he had it, and at the moment he didn’t look all that forgiving about the incident.
He looked thoroughly tired and pissed off.
“I have people listening. When they hear something, I’ll take care of it. You have my word.”
From Salvatore Ariano Sr., that was quite a promise.
“I don’t really care about revenge.” Sal shook his head. “I’m just trying to make sense of it.”
“Then you are the only one in this room that doesn’t care about revenge.”
Sal laughed a little, and it hurt his stomach like being branded with a glowing hot piece of iron. “Okay, but let’s just say I’m not so much interested even in who did it as in not having it happen again.”
Unthinkable at the moment. He’d never been shot before and didn’t wish to repeat the experience. Sal added, “You really have no idea?”
“Honestly, Son, I don’t. This blindsided me.”
“How well do you know Reign Grazi?” His mother had sat down in the chair next to the bed. She reached over and touched his face, but her fingertips were cold and her expression hard.
“This isn’t her fault.”
“Salvatore, I don’t think that was the question.”
“Intimately,” he responded because he really wasn’t much of a liar anyway, and his mother always knew if he even tried it. Under the hostess persona she was pretty shrewd. “Like if she would consider it, which she won’t so don’t panic, I’d marry her.”
If he wasn’t on some pretty heavy painkillers he’d never have said that, but there it was. A machine beeped into the silence following that admission.
“Over my dead body,” his father muttered after a moment, his face shuttered.
“I’m kind of thinking her family feels the same way.” Sal pushed the button for more morphine. “Lucky me. This Romeo and Juliet bullshit is archaic.”
“Don’t be a smartass. Maybe Grazi heard about you and his daughter and ordered the hit.”
“And risk Reign’s life? No way. I happen to know he adores her. Those bullets could just have easily hit her. I want you to do me a favor and find out if, for any reason, there’s a contract out on her.”
“She was there with Fattelli.” His father’s voice was crisp and unforgiving.
He’d known all along how they would react, but luckily, it was the least of his problems at the moment.
“Oh, I noticed.” Sal was starting to fade a little, zoning out. “That was a lovely moment for me, as you can imagine. The evening only got better. I can’t decide if seeing her with him or getting shot was the worst part.”
His mother reached over and risked her manicured nails to clasp his hand. “Don’t e
ven say that.”
With an ironic tone, he said, “Are we now worrying about my possible broken heart, my near-death experience, or how I feel?”
If she answered, he didn’t hear it. Thankfully he drifted into la-la land.
* * *
Reign listened carefully and heard the prognosis with a lightened sense of what she hadn’t realized was such a heavy worry.
The doctor said, “He’s stable and we’ll move him to a general surgery floor in a few hours. Obviously he lost some blood and that’s why he is so out of it. Don’t take that as a bad sign. He came through the surgery beautifully, and we are optimistic the rest of his recovery will go the same way.”
Several nurses bustled past, one of them pushing a cart, the wheels rattling on the linoleum floor.
“Thank you.” Reign said, her voice breaking a little. “No one else will tell me anything.”
“He wants to see you.”
She wanted to see him too. “How perfect. That’s why I’m here.”
“I understand you’re part of the reason he came through so well.” The doctor was young and pretty, wearing scrubs and the usual white coat, her gaze assessing. Absolutely business-like, but the assessment seemed to weigh in some judgment.
She’d done a lot in her life that tested her ability to deal with fellow human beings. Reign lifted her shoulders. “I did my best to stop the bleeding.”
“You must have been effective enough, because he is still alive. Are you a nurse?”
“Sal would never bow out without a fight, and no, I’m a fashion designer.” She held out her hand. She should actually be at her studio right now because she’d been commissioned to come up with a proposal for a wedding gown for a friend of Giovanna’s, but her assistant had keys. “Reign Grazi.”
“I wondered.” The doctor slid the file in her hand onto the desk and gave Reign a brief shake. “I realize this is New York, and I’ve heard his family name before, and I’ve even heard yours … but my life would be easier if you all might get along a little better.”
“Sal and I,” Reign said with a small smile, “get along just fine. Can I go in?”
“Ms. Grazi, I have a feeling he would like nothing better, so please go ahead.”
Playing with Fire Page 9
