by Sadie Black
The report continued, listing medical jargon Luka couldn't wrap his head around.
"Sir!" the nurse called again, jogging down the hallway to catch up to him. Luka shot a glance back at her to gauge her distance. There was still enough ground between them that he could make a clean break into the room, and so he did. From the inside he locked the door, pulled down the blinds over the viewing window, and turned to the only occupied bed out of four. Had he not known to expect a man, Luka might have thought the assortment of wrappings, plaster casts, and bedding were left there on accident. What he saw was no accident; it was someone's handiwork.
"Gino," Luka breathed as the nurse pounded upon the door. "Oh fuck, Gino. What the fuck happened?"
He dragged a plastic chair from beside the door to Gino's bedside, looking down upon his friend before sitting. The lower half of Gino's face was fitted with a ventilator mask, the upper half wrapped in bloody bandages, still bright red; the man's wounds had not yet stopped bleeding. One eye was left uncovered, and as Luka approached, it opened. Bloodshot and glossy, it locked on Luka's face and betrayed fear. Gino made a noise, muffled by the mask over his face. Luka pulled the mask down, and Gino rattled out a raspy moan.
"You came."
"Of course I came, you dumb shit," Luka mumbled affectionately. He sat in the chair, knees weakening. "What kind of a shitty best friend would I be if I didn't come when you called to say you were in critical. How... How did you do that, anyway?"
Gino's legs were wrapped up in plaster, elevated by slings that hung from the ceiling. One of his arms was wrapped in similar casting, and the other was tucked against his chest in a sling. Blood spotted a sturdy brace on his chest, and his waist and groin were covered with a thin baby blue blanket. From the looks of him, there was no way he'd be able to summon the finesse to unlock his phone and dial Luka's number.
"I charmed a nurse into dialing you for me and holding the phone to my ear," he admitted, words rattling and wheezed out, as though even his voice was broken.
"Did the job go bad?" Luka asked, getting to the meat of the matter. "I thought you were afraid of jail time, not of getting hurt. Did you guys fuck it up and get busted?"
Each of Gino's whistling inhalation was painful to hear; Luka could only imagine how much agony his friend was in. A long moment passed between them where the only sound was his breathing, the pounding on the door, and the beeping of medical equipment. Finally, Gino spoke.
"I skirted out on the job. Tried to skip town. Tried to get out. The boss hunted me down and sicked the men I was supposed to work with on me."
"Holy shit," Luka whispered, deflated. He leaned forward, elbow meeting his knee as he buried his forehead in his palm. The news hit hard.
"They're not men, Luka — they're animals. Wild animals that serve one master. They fucked me up, beat me beyond broken. The nurses don't know if I'll walk again, say I might never breathe normally again. And this—" he broke from what he was saying to cough.
Luka thought he could hear the broken ribs in his chest clacking as he did. "—this was just a warning. A slap on the wrist. Vittore is dangerous. I heard through the grapevine that you went to see him... Turn back before it's too late. Don't get caught up in this shit. Don't end up like me."
It was too late for that. Way too fucking late. Luka sat up straight, unable to keep from fidgeting. To see Gino in such a sorry state destroyed him, and knowing that it was Vittore who had ordered it to happen made his blood boil. The mix of emotions, both regretful and furious, did not settle. What Vittore had done was atrocious. His friend might've pissed him off, but Gino was still another human being, a man with hopes and dreams — a fact which Vittore had conveniently forgotten. Men weren't men to him, but puppets on strings. One wrong move, one misstep, and clearly Vittore wasn't above cutting them.
Luka wouldn't stand for it. Vittore wasn't going to get away with his heinous behavior so easily, not when he'd made it personal.
Gino had begun to gasp for breath, unable to breathe properly without the assistance of his ventilator. Luka rose and positioned the ventilator mask back over Gino's nose and mouth.
"I'm going to do you justice," he swore. "I'm going to fuck Vittore Lombardo over, going to see he suffers for what he did to you. I'll see to it you get your revenge, Gino. No one fucks with what's mine and gets away with it, not even the fucking Don."
The mutterings from beneath Gino's mask urged Luka to reconsider, but he'd made up his mind. No one was going to break his family apart so maliciously. No one was going to get away with causing Gino so much pain. Lombardo was going to wish he'd never given those orders; Luka would make sure of it.
"Rest well, Gino. You focus on getting better and leave the rest to me. I'll do you proud — I swear."
As he turned to leave, Gino mumbled something incomprehensible into his ventilator. The single uncovered eye closed, and the man succumbed to sleep once more. Luka unlocked the door, and as he did, the nurse burst in. Several hospital staff had gathered around the door, a janitor fumbling through a key ring as he sought the correct key for the lock.
"I know, I know," Luka said, voice rolling and dark like a thunderstorm across a plain, "this is a prohibited area. I'm on my way out."
As much as he wanted to stick by Gino's side, the night wasn't over yet. Ciara waited in the car for a lift home, and Luka needed time on his own to contemplate Vittore's punishment. Maybe it wasn't too late to score some coke to help keep him up and focused all night. He'd given the stuff up before his candidacy announcement, but tonight wasn't a standard Saturday night. Tonight had been one hell of a wake-up call, and Luka needed all the help he could get.
Two bulky members of security escorted him from the building, but Luka paid them no heed. The bite of the cold night air froze over his nostrils and chilled the surface of his eyes. But the discomfort was nothing compared to Gino's suffering. Luka shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and tore across the front of the hospital and back to the parking lot where Ciara waited in his idling Corvette.
"Luka, is everything okay?" she asked as he ducked down to sit in the driver's seat. Not even the mellow sound of her voice or the satisfaction of seeing such a fine woman sitting in his passenger seat was enough to sooth his soul. Everything was not okay, but how could be begin to explain any of it? Ciara didn't need to be dragged into this, not when her hands were clean.
"I don't want to talk about it," he rasped, turning the keys to bring the engine back to life. It was the last exchange of words they had until Luka dropped her off in front of her apartment building. All of his resources were devoted into turning over the details and planning.
Vittore wouldn't get out of this without suffering the consequences; Luka would make damn sure of it.
* * *
Ciara
The kettle whistled. Ciara lifted her chin towards it to witness the steam that poured from the spout. A French press was waiting on the counter, ground espresso already layered at the bottom waiting to be steeped. It was edging on ten at night, but Ciara knew it was just the beginning of her evening. In her inbox were several time-stamped pictures that needed to be addressed. In her own picture folder several shots from an incredibly incriminating text conversation.
'V', whoever he was, was bad news. Not only would her first story expose a man unfit for political office, but it might just take down a wing of the New York mafia.
If she could find the heart to publish it.
Despite Luka's reckless behavior, as wild as he was, Ciara had come to understand his life much better. Any man in his position would be stretched to his limit. On one side his mother's health was failing her, and on the other his political worthiness was dragged through the mud. But not any man would pull himself above it to woo a woman as he had with her. Luka had all the charms of a small town southern boy with all of the ambition and drive of a man from the big city. Not even Theo, a man raised with all the trimmings of a good southern upbringing, had been as courteou
s or polite. But Luka's character alone was not what made Ciara hesitate.
The more time she'd spent at Luka's side outside of business hours, the more she looked forward to seeing him. There was a part of Luka that spoke to a long neglected part of Ciara's soul and nourished her. When they were together, the world was new and nothing was beyond her reach. There hadn't been a time in the past when a man had made her feel that way, and Ciara was reluctant to trade it in for the sake of a paycheck.
A turn of the burner's dial turned the heat off, and Ciara drew the kettle away from the element by the handle. Her thumb pressed down on the lever to lift the spout covering, and steam belched forth in a lofty cloud.
Once upon a time, she'd let her ambition rule over her heart; no man had been worth the price of her future. Now that Luka had been introduced to the equation, she was talking about the story that would make her career as little more than a paycheck. Was he worth the sacrifice? After tonight's revelation, did she even really know who Luka Belmonte truly was?
On the way back to her apartment, Luka hadn't said a single word to her, apart from a curt goodnight as she left the car. Red flags littered the past when it came to his behavior, but she couldn't blame him for it. Maybe the distance was all he could do to keep himself from breaking down.
The hot water poured from the kettle into the French press, the aroma of coffee filling the room. If Luka was hurting, she should reach out to him. A phone call to let him know she thinking of him, even if he didn't want to speak to anybody, would do him good. When no one else could be there for him, Ciara would lend him her support and promise him an ear to talk to when he was willing to talk.
But doing that would be a slap in the face once the story went to print.
"Damn it, Ciara," she whispered to herself. The strainer plunged through the glass container, filtering the grounds from the beverage. "You told yourself a long time ago that no man was worth your career. Stick to your guns. You know how many marriages end in divorce? There will be other men."
The words felt fake in her mouth, and Ciara pursed her lips shut and refused to utter any more. No man would be exactly like Luka. But just like no other man would be like Luka, no other story would be quite like this one. Here she was, a fresh faced journalist in the big city sitting on a story set to blow government corruption out of the water. How was the city ever going to scrub its filthy underbelly if it elected men already covered in its grime?
It was time to write.
Ciara brought her mug to her small kitchen table upon which her laptop waited. The word processor was already loaded, a blank page taunting her. Daring her to choose money over love.
Doubts still plagued her mind despite her renewed determination to get the story done. Wouldn't it be better to turn in the evidence to the police and let them deal with the scenario appropriately? Luka's life would still be ruined, but at least his name wouldn't be smeared before millions. If she was just trying to do the right thing, wouldn't that be it?
Connections to the mafia meant more than just a tarnished reputation — it meant jail time. The pretty boy behind bars. Ciara imagined muscular, cutthroat criminals already incarcerated, hardened by years of living in rough conditions, and then Luka among them. Slender, clever, and used to a life of luxury. Intuition told her he wouldn't make it out alive.
Ciara's hand curled around the mug, scalding her palm against the hot ceramic. Why was this such a difficult choice? Luka had wormed his way under her skin just like he had countless other pretty women; she was smart enough to realize that much. She'd already known he was charming, but she never guessed that a man as hungry for the opposite sex as Luka would be so genuinely interested in her. How many women had he cozied up to since they had started unofficially going out? The topless women in the photographs had all looked happy enough to cluster around him — but Luka hadn't looked thrilled at all. Could it really be that she'd tamed his insatiable appetite for women?
"Stop it," she muttered aloud. "You're clouding the facts with your emotions. Journalism is about facts. Get your head in the game, and start writing."
Ciara settled into her kitchen chair and let her gaze tumble down the blank page of the word processor. It was just another article — she'd written articles hundreds of times in university. This was more of the same, but on a topic that mattered, a topic that would change the minds of New York City.
And launch her to the stars.
Luka Belmonte, her fingers inscribed, the plastic of her keys painting the silence of the room. Ciara paused, fingers resting above the keys. Now that she had a start, now that words had sullied the purity of the page, the rest would flow out like lava down the side of a volcano. The words she wrote would flood New York, destroying Luka in the eyes of all they consumed. The article would leave the ground beneath his feet scorched, reputation beyond recovery. Ciara swallowed the lump in her throat and continued.
Hooked on Nose Candy and Sweet Talking the Mafia?
Mayoral candidate, and son of the celebrated Marcello Belmonte, is no stranger to wild nights. However, claims that his party days are behind him appear to be false. Recent photographs suggest otherwise.
Every article she'd written, even on the most delicate of topics, had never been as hard to write as this one. Every word tugged upon her conscious, her style blocky and sluggish when it was usually fluid and punchy. Ciara had to stop, leaning back in her chair to gaze up at the overhead light. The light bulb was exposed; she still hadn't found the time or the money to afford a lamp shade. The sting of unfiltered light was a welcome distraction.
The Luka she knew wasn't the man in the pictures, and he wasn't the man in the text messages with V. Either he put on a stellar act, or something else was going on. There were further layers of truth to be discovered, more deception to be peeled away. But the more time she spent procrastinating, the more time there was for her career to die before it even got off the ground. Killian wouldn't wait forever, and other journalists had to be sniffing at Luka's tail trying to dig up the dirt she'd just unearthed. If she found it, how much longer would it be before someone else got to the goods?
Trembling, Ciara sat back up in her chair, and set her fingers back on the keys. Words tumbled forth chaotic and haphazard, like boxes tumbling across the floor after being knocked from a stack. All of her schooling backed the article up and made it technically correct, but it lacked the spirit and voice Ciara was so proud of.
Hours passed, the majority of her time wasted by guilt. At just shy of one in the morning, Ciara sat back in her chair heavily and heaved a sigh. It was done. The blank page had turned into sentences and paragraphs. Nothingness had taken shape and come together to make the piece that would start her career — and end Luka's.
It was done.
Ciara saved the document, opened her email, and plugged Killian's handle into the recipient field. No man would hold her back, not even Luka Belmonte.
* * *
Luka
The drive home was just as silent as the drive to Ciara's dumpy little apartment off-island. Luka stewed in his anger, thoughts returning to Gino and going over the night's events in a cyclical pattern. How was he going to get at a man as heavily steeped in security as Vittore? Revenge was a nice fantasy, but the reality was far more difficult. Maybe impossible. The drive from Ciara's place was spent considering it, and by the time Luka pulled the silver Corvette back into his father's underground garage, he'd yet to come up with a plan. Perhaps it was for the best. As angry as he was, Luka knew he'd make poor decisions should he storm Vittore's estate. To burst into the Don's personal estate would be worse than anything Ryan Breece had dished out — Gino was living proof of that. If that was just a warning, Luka didn't want to see what true punishment looked like. Making an attempt on Vittore's life would invoke nothing less.
Hands dug into his pockets, Luka made his way up from the garage and back into the house. The downstairs was unoccupied save for Rosa, their live-in maid, who was wiping down the
kitchen table. Luka passed her without acknowledgment, searching for his mother. When he found the living room empty, he took to the stairs.
If she wasn't resting on the couch where he'd left her, she'd made her way to bed. As long as she was safe and comfortable, Luka could lock himself in his room to continue his contemplation. He closed himself into the bedroom he used when he visited his parents and strolled towards the window when his phone rang.
It had to be Ciara checking up on him, he thought, and nearly answered without checking the caller ID. Right before his index finger tapped the green answer button, Luka noticed the name that had come up.
It was unlike the Don to reach out through phone call to anyone — most of the time, his underlings took care of the footwork. Luka scowled, allowed the phone to ring for a moment longer, then answered with a steely voice.
"Hello."
"Luka," Vittore's voice rolled low and smooth, but behind it was a hitch of irritation that Luka hadn't heard before. The Don was always soft spoken and in control of his emotions, and the irritation was all the more revealing for it. Whatever had irked Vittore was big, and Luka had to wonder if someone had planted bugs in Gino's hospital room prior to his visit. What other reason would Vittore have to call him personally?
"Yeah," Luka replied, voice stiff and guarded. He placed a hand against the windowsill and leaned forward, observing the rushing street below. Down the hall he could hear his mother shuffling about. Ciara's visit had given her energy she hadn't had in a long time, and Luka wasn't sure whether he was grateful for it or not. If she exerted herself too much, it would only make her weaker and slow her recovery.
"So," Vittore said, each word plucked like a cherry from its stem, "Luka, I'd like to tell you about a certain someone."
"What are you talking about?" The hand against the sill tightened into a fist. Vittore was up to something, but he wasn't sure what it was just yet.