The Nomad Series-Collectors Edition

by Janine Infante Bosco

  “What do you know about PTSD?”

  Leaning back against the couch, she brings her knees up to her chin and sighs.

  “I know it’s no joke, and that society doesn’t take it nearly as seriously as they should. Seventy million people in this world suffer a traumatic experience at least once in their lifetime and twenty percent are diagnosed with PTSD, most of them veterans.”

  “Stryker is a veteran. He served in Afghanistan not too long ago and the things he saw, the acts of war he committed, they all resonated with him. He lost every one of the guys he was stationed with on some mission,” I reveal, dropping my thumb. “He left war, but it never left him.”

  She nods in understanding.

  “I’ve seen so many men come into the hospital at the end of their rope, with nowhere else to turn begging the doctors to ‘fix them’. One guy told us he went back to his recruiting officer and pleaded with him to send him back because coming home and being forced to live a normal life wasn’t an option for him anymore. It’s really sad because our government will invest billions of dollars sending humans to Mars but they won’t adequately fund treatment for our vets. There’s a man, as soon as you get off the Victory Boulevard exit on the Staten Island Expressway, he’s there every day, with no legs sitting on the side of the road in a wheelchair begging for money because he fought for his country and when he was done, after he lost his legs...we washed our hands of him.”

  “How do you help them?” I whisper, lifting my eyes back to my cousin. “If not all of them, how do you help one? How do you save one man before it’s too late?”

  “What do you mean too late?”

  “Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “All I meant was how do you save them before they’re the man on the side of the road,” I lie.

  Listening to the facts, having the ugly truth forced down my throat is too much and I stop worrying about my broken heart and think about the man who sat on a bench with me, in front of the ocean, and admitted that he’s tried more than once to end his life. How do you ignore that? How do we as human beings get to ignore that? It’s a goddamn shame that a man like Stryker can come back home and live a nightmare.

  “I don’t know that you can save them,” she whispers. “I know you can try but all we’re guaranteed in this world is taxes and death,” she says sadly, reaching over to place her hand on my knee. “If he’s suffering from PTSD don’t write him off just yet, Gina. Put yourself in his shoes and be sure before you close the door on him.”

  “I didn’t close the door he did. I know he needs help, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to help him but how do you help someone who thinks they’re not worthy. I’ll sit here and wait for him to come back but I don’t think he’s going to, he’s too selfless to come back to me.”

  I don’t think it.

  I know it.

  The same way I knew when I first met him he’d be unlike everyone else in my life. Like I knew he’d be the guy that came into my life and reminded me of the things I wanted that I had long buried. He’d make me want to be the girl no one saw, the one I kept hidden. He’d make that girl shine.

  And he did.

  But the light has been turned off, and it’s not just me left in the darkness but him as well.

  I only pray he doesn’t let it swallow him whole.

  Stryker

  Sitting on the cobblestone path in front of the gates of Rocco’s mansion with a loaded gun in my lap and the terror of what I’d done weighing heavy on my head and heart, I wait for the gangster who hasn’t shown his face or answered my calls in days.

  I want to blame him.

  I want to blame my club.

  Hell, I want to blame my country, anyone but myself and these hands that were wrapped around Gina’s neck.

  Her pretty green eyes wide with shock and fear are all I can see. Her cries for me to stay are all I hear. Her touch lingers as she gently tries to bring me back to her, away from the rooftop and the rifle in my hand, away from the mother using her son in a plot of terror. I taste blood in my mouth from biting my cheek as I watch her make excuses for me. She’s completely tarnished my senses, leaving me useless and at the mercy of the memory of what I did.

  I knew better, but I ignored everything embedded in my soul to indulge in her and my twisted need to protect her.

  Some protector I am.

  I let my head get the best of me, let myself believe I could be a man worth the dick between his legs, but I’m no man, no hero I’m no better than my piece of shit, father.

  It doesn’t matter if I have an army behind me or a band of brothers willing and able to have my back, I’ll never be able to save her from the man I am, and no threat is more severe than the one of a man with a loaded gun, ready to take his own life.

  Lifting my head to watch as a black Lincoln Navigator rolls up the street, I wrap my hand firmly around the gun and stare blankly at the SUV until it comes to a complete stop in front of the gates. Rocco jumps out of the back of the car, a disheveled mess and stares at me in horror.

  “She’s fine,” I tell him, watching as he grabs his knees and draws out a sigh of relief. He stares at the gun in my hand and then diverts his eyes to the dried blood that stains my pants.

  “You need to put your boy Johnny back on her,” I say. The tone of my voice demands he bring his attention back to my face and I stare at him long and hard. “You make sure he guards her with his life. If he’s not willing to sacrifice his own life for hers then you find someone better, someone who only gives a fuck if she lives.”

  “Johnny’s gone,” he informs me. “I’ve got my men—”

  “Find someone else,” I demand, not giving a damn about the details of his right hands disappearance. “Or do it yourself. Tie her up and drag her by her hair if she doesn’t listen. She won’t listen so that’s probably what you’ll have to do.”

  “What happened?”

  “It doesn’t matter what happened. What matters is that you listen to every fucking word I’m about to tell you and you take them as serious as you would your next breath because if you don’t I’ll see to it that you don’t get a chance to fill those lungs again.”

  He narrows his eyes as I wrap my finger around the trigger and push myself onto my feet. Grunting through the pain in my leg, I stand and aim my gun at him. The man in the driver’s seat jumps out of the truck and reaches for his gun.

  “It’s okay,” Rocco tells him. “He won’t shoot me.”

  “You sound sure about that,” I comment, taking a step closer.

  “I am because I’m listening to everything you're saying,” he replies.

  I nod.

  “Good,” I hiss, keeping my gun steady. My leg feels like it’s on fire but I try to ignore it and keep my weight balanced between both legs. “You call Jack Parrish and tell him everything you know about Yankovich. Every fucking thing. Do not leave out anything. Make him understand how serious it is. Tell him about Gina, fucking show him a goddamn picture of her, make him see beauty in a world full of ugly and demand he and the club help you keep her safe. Admit defeat, tell him you’re in over your head, get down on your fucking knees and beg him if you have to.”

  “You could do that you know. He’ll listen to you before he’ll listen to me,” he tries to persuade me.

  “I could but I’m not going to. This is all you, pretty boy,” I inform him as I limp toward my bike and lower my gun. Closing my eyes, her face comes into sight and I wonder if every time I close my eyes if that will happen. I wonder if it’s her face I’ll see the final time I close my eyes. Will her face be the last thing I see?

  Groaning, I throw my leg over my bike and tuck my gun into the waistband of my cargos before turning back to Rocco.

  “Keep our girl safe,” I say.

  My words are meant to be a warning but they sound more like a plea.

  I stare at him long and hard as I grip the handlebars of my bike and send him another plea.

  A silent one.

&n
bsp; One my eyes beg him to understand.

  Keep the beauty alive in the ugly.

  -Twenty-nine-

  Gina

  I thought I had it all figured out. I measured success by the designer shoes lined in my closet and the handbags I had to match each pair. I prided myself on being an independent woman who didn’t need to rely on a man to support her financially or to buy her nice things. I didn’t need a man to lavish me with fancy presents. I bought them myself. I didn’t need a man to take me on vacation. I had a passport in my top drawer waiting for its first stamp.

  I didn’t need or want for anything.

  Lies.

  I wanted all the things I couldn’t give myself.

  I wanted to be loved.

  I wanted a man to look at me and take my breath away every single time.

  I wanted to belong to someone.

  I don’t know if I always wanted them, if I was always this lonely and simply too blind by success to realize it or if they became my wants after he came into my life.

  The biker full of dirty promises who fulfilled every single one he ever made.

  Except one.

  Except the last one.

  Stryker promised he’d never allow himself the risk to hurt me again, but walking away from me, from us—it hurt me more than anything.

  I waited for him to come back, prayed for it even, but he never did. For the first few days I worried what he might do to himself. I feared for his safety and his state of mind. Then worry and fear turned to anger.

  Old habits are hard to break and so the world doesn’t know I’m broken. No one knows I’m grieving a love I never truly had in the first place. I’m the girl with a smile on her face, strutting down the avenue like she can buy and sell every store front. I’m the girl with her head held so high that everyone thinks has the perfect life.

  I’m the lonely girl who should get a fucking Oscar for the performance she puts on every damn day of her life. The girl who’s going to go home to her empty apartment and fix herself a bologna sandwich because that’s all that’s left of the man she fell in love with.

  Powering down my computer and pushing back my chair, I move to grab my briefcase off the floor when my office door swings open. Forgetting about the briefcase, I brace my hands on the desk and stare at the intruder.

  I’m firing my secretary.

  “Don’t you ever knock?” I ask my brother. I’m shocked to see him here; since Stryker disappeared, Rocco has supplied me with a not so subtle guard, one that sits on the corner of my office building eating hot dogs from the food truck. Maybe my brother got wind of the shitty employee he hired, or the poor guy had a heart attack from ingesting all those hot dogs, either scenario would explain why the big, burly beast didn’t trail me to my office this morning. It would also give my brother an excuse to barge into my office like he gives a damn.

  “Hi, Rocco, it’s good to see you,” he mocks. “Thanks, sis…”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was in the area,” he shrugs his shoulders, lying through his teeth. “Thought maybe we could grab dinner.”

  My eyes widen at the suggestion as he sticks his finger into the collar of his dress shirt, tugging it away from his neck.

  “If you hate wearing a suit, why are you always dressed in one?”

  “Why do you plaster a smile on your face when you’re so miserable?” he fires back and shrugs his shoulders as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “It looks good. Come on, I hate to eat alone,” he urges.

  So do I.

  Staring at him, my eyes begin to water. For a moment we’re not two siblings ripped apart by the death of their parents and the different paths they chose. For one moment he’s just my big brother and I’m still his little sister. We’re two kids walking home from school together, fighting over who would eat the last of mom’s cookies.

  “Okay,” I whisper, grabbing my purse off the top of my desk.

  “Really?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

  He pauses for a moment as I watch him take his hands out of his pockets “Okay then,” he says, holding out his arm. “Let’s go.”

  I loop my arm through his and when we get to the bank of elevators, I don’t let go. In fact, we walk two blocks arm in arm to a little trattoria. I pretend the bodyguard isn’t trailing behind us and when we walk into the restaurant and everyone gawks at my brother, I don’t roll my eyes. He’s a regular here with a table reserved in the corner at all times. We’re quickly seated and handed menus but Rocco never opens his. A waiter comes and fills our glasses with Rocco’s favorite wine and I try to take it all in stride.

  “The calamari is delicious here,” he says. “So is the spaghetti and meatballs, the sauce reminds me of moms,” he adds.

  “Moms sauce,” I repeat. “Wow, I didn’t realize how much I missed it until you just said it.”

  “Really? I fucking dream of her meatballs. You know you really should’ve learned how she made them. You could’ve carried on the recipe, instead we have to rely on Gino’s,” he says, pointing a thumb toward the kitchen.

  “You used to devour them before she even put them in the sauce,” I recall, and as if on cue Gino emerges from the kitchen with a plate of fried meatballs.

  “For you, Mr. Rocco,” he says, placing the plate between us. “Buon appetito!”

  My brother flashes me a smile and again my eyes water. What the hell is wrong with me? He reaches over, handing me a fork and nods to the plate in front of us.

  “Dig in,” he says.

  I break off a piece of one meatball and stab it with my fork before bringing it to my mouth for a taste. Rocco goes for the gusto and pops half the meatball into his mouth.

  “Oh my God,” I say, through a mouthful of ground beef.

  “Fucking delicious, no?” he asks as he pops the other half into his mouth.

  “They do taste like moms,” I agree, reaching for the wine.

  “Wait until they’re in the sauce,” he says. “I come here once a week, sometimes twice.”

  “It’s funny, this place is two blocks from my office and this is the first time I ever realized it was here.”

  “Probably because it’s not an overpriced joint where you can woo your clients,” he points out. I think he’s attempting to make a joke but sadly it’s the truth. I place the glass down and look across the table at my brother, watching as he splits the last meatball in half, placing one half in my dish and the other in his.

  Like he used to do with the final cookie.

  “Rocco?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you happy?”

  He lifts his gaze to mine contemplating his answer.

  “For now,” he answers truthfully as he leans back against the wooden chair and observes me. “You’re not.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “You miss biker boy.”

  “I guess I do,” I mutter, sighing as I reach for the wine again.

  Throwing down his napkin, he lets out an exasperated breath and leans forward.

  “You’re right, I’m an asshole. I never should’ve let him handle my business,” he points a finger toward me. “You’re my business, Gina. We might not be the same kids we used to be but you’re my sister and you’re all I’ve got in this world. I should’ve kept Johnny watching over you, but the truth is I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. I’m flying blind here. I went from running Uncle Vic’s nightclub in Miami to this,” he spreads his arms wide then flicks the lapels of his suit. “I jumped on Stryker’s offer because I figured he was more experienced in this shit, he had a whole fucking club to back him should anything happen. That’s more than I’ve got. I don’t know who I can trust right now.”

  Sliding down my cheeks, the tears give way and Rocco reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silk handkerchief.

  “I was wondering when the fuck these things would come in handy,” he mutters, handing it over to me.

  “I miss you,” I admit, dry
ing my eyes. “I miss my brother.”

  “I’m right here, Gina.”

  Gino emerges from the kitchen once again balancing two heaping plates full of spaghetti and meatballs, placing them in front of us.

  “Mangia, mangia!”

  Rocco tips his head to the plate in front of me.

  “Go on, get a fix of mom.”

  He was right, the dinner reminded me of my mother’s cooking and I’d like to think she was with us in that little trattoria. I’d like to think she was smiling, finally proud of her two children, if for no other reason except they had found their way to common ground through their love of her meatballs.

  Rocco had parked his car in the garage across the street so after we finished dinner, and had the best cheesecake ever, we headed back toward my office. I realized I had left my briefcase back in my office and he was about to walk me back up to get it when his phone rang. Instantly his whole demeanor changed, the smile he had been sporting on the way here vanished.

  “I’ve got to run,” he declared, turning to the guard standing ten feet away from us and beckoned him to his side. “Make sure my sister gets home safely.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  “Is everything okay?” I ask, dragging his attention back to me.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” he leans forward and gives my cheek a peck. “It's fine,” he repeats and I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure me or himself. “We’ll do this again, next week,” he promises.

  “I’d like that,” I tell him. “Be careful.”

  “Always,” he mutters. Turning around he gives his guard a steady look before disappearing out the door.

  “I’m just going to run up and get my briefcase and then we can head out,” I tell the bodyguard. “You don’t have to come with me, you need the passcode for the elevators. It’s safe.”

  “As you wish Miss Spinelli.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Richie,” he supplies, crossing one hand over the other as he stands as still as a soldier.

  “I’ll be right down, Richie.”

  He nods as the elevator doors open and I step inside, watching as he takes his place in front of the doors as they close. I enter the passcode, press the button to my floor and quickly make my way to my office. I grab a stack of papers from the top of my desk and shove them into the briefcase. Giving the room a once over, I shut the lights and head back downstairs.