by Nia Farrell
“Il mio povero agnello,” he crooned, patting her back. “My poor lamb.”
“I’m s-s-sorry,” she sobbed. “It’s just…” God, she couldn’t begin to describe what she was feeling right now. She was scared for Matteo but the larger part was empathy and concern for his father. She’d seen what losing the eldest son did to his parents. She hoped that Dom Visconti would weather it better than her father had.
“Sshh.” He rocked her gently. “I know. I know. But you’ve done all that you could. It is in God’s hands now. Anytime you want to leave, say the word and I will have Paolo drive you home.”
The offer sounded sincere. Although she still wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t have her snuffed on the way out the door.
“I’d like to stay until he’s stable, if you don’t mind,” she sputtered. If they actually let her go home, she’d drive herself nuts, wondering if Matteo had made it and how he was. “I still need to get your coffee. In another hour or two, I can fix breakfast for everyone. I’ll look in the basement. There’s a prepper’s pantry down there.” She’d found it when Matteo had drifted to sleep and she could safely steal a few minutes away.
“Or I can send someone to get what we need,” he said. “Come, Bethany. Let’s go to the kitchen. I can drink coffee, and you can write the shopping list for twenty. Wait. Some of the men eat double. Make it twenty-four. That should be easier. And a couple of my men can cook. You don’t have to do it.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, drying her cheeks and wiping her eyes with her fingers. “It will give me something to do besides worry.”
A headcount of two dozen would work well for eggs. She’d have to take her best guess at bread for toast but canned biscuits would be a snap. She could put some bacon in the oven to go with them. Maybe she should make some gravy…? Butter and jelly would be simpler. Or apple butter. Yes.
Mr. Visconti got his coffee. Beth made no apologies for finishing her beer while she worked on the grocery list. Or for grabbing another beer when the first can was empty. She’d only been drunk once in her life, at a cousin’s wedding where her high school sweetheart was a groomsman and she was a bridesmaid. The next morning, she’d awakened to the hushed conversation that Blaine was having with his wife. She didn’t wait until he was done. She’d thrown on her clothes and headed straight to the pharmacy for a morning-after pill.
Matteo’s father had spared her that much, anyway. She should be glad that he was a forward-thinking man who planned for contingencies, but part of her still cringed at the sight of that tablet in his hand, offering it to her like an act of absolution, with no penance to be done except in her own heart and mind. Her mother would have given her the guilt trip. Likely, her sister would have, too. Yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to feel remorse for yielding to Matteo and giving him what he wanted, what he needed.
For being his angel of mercy.
The pill that she’d taken might have officially ended their moment, but she doubted that she would ever forget.
5
Beth decided to do a meal plan for the entire day. She didn’t know if they would move Matteo as soon as he was stable enough to transport, or if they would choose to keep him here for a few days. Thanks to the Viscontis’ doctor, she had five days before she had to clock in. If they stayed, she suspected that she’d spend today and probably tomorrow here. Beyond that, who knew?
She slid the shopping list across the table to where Mr. Visconti sat, sipping his coffee. Val had finished his beer and had switched to coffee, too. “There’s extra there for lunch and dinner, if you think we’ll be here. Or you can have your cooks get whatever they want to fix.”
Mr. Visconti read what she’d written and passed the paper to Val. “Have Giorgio and Franco get everything she needs, everything Doc needs, and whatever else they want, capisci? They can make another run tonight or tomorrow, depending on what Doc says.”
It was strange, but after Mr. Visconti had hugged her in the hall, she was much more at ease with him. While Giorgio and Franco went for groceries, the other Visconti brothers wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of coffee.
The four brothers resembled each other, but they had very different personalities. Matteo, the eldest, was the intense one. Val was the introspective one, intelligent and charismatic. Marco was the wit, with a dry sense of humor and deadpan delivery. The youngest brother Antonio—Tony—was a player. Handsome as a fitness-model, he soon proved to be an incorrigible flirt.
Until Mr. Visconti saw her fidget. Just a single, telling lift of a finger from the hold on his coffee and giving Tony “the look” was enough to make him behave.
Their enigmatic father wasn’t the only mystery to be unraveled. Beth felt like she’d seen Marco and Tony before. The more the brothers bantered, the more that she was certain of it.
And then it hit her.
“Excuse me,” she said when there was a break in the conversation, “but aren’t you two in Ribelle?”
Tony propped his tattooed arms on the table and gave her a look that would have melted someone else’s panties. The flirt was back, just that fast. “It sounds like you’ve seen us.”
“A few times,” she admitted. “I heard you at Italian Fest a couple of years ago. You played at Giovanni’s a few months back.”
“We did,” said Marco. “Matteo had a band cancel and asked us to fill in.”
Oh, shit. Giovanni’s, her favorite Italian restaurant, was probably one of the family’s legitimate businesses, and Matteo managed it. Or officially managed it, putting in appearances when he wasn’t out avenging the family honor and getting shot.
Conversation ceased abruptly when Doc appeared in the doorway. The Visconti family physician was maybe all of forty years old, with the coloring, the medical skills, and the lack of qualms required when one worked for Italian-American organized crime.
“He’s good,” Dr. Romano said, sounding as tired as he looked. “Stable. I’d like to keep him here tonight and reevaluate tomorrow morning to see if he’s up to going home.”
The collective sigh of relief from his family was almost palpable.
Mr. Visconti rose from the table. “How soon can I see him?”
“Anytime, but he’s still groggy. Give him thirty minutes, and he’ll be more responsive. And Dom Visconti, when you do see him, please, be brief and upbeat. He needs to stay calm and focus on healing. Family business will wait.”
Mr. Visconti went to check on his son. Val went with him. Beth suspected it was to make sure that their father followed the physician’s orders.
As haggard as Dr. Romano looked, she didn’t know which he needed worse, caffeine or comfort. “We have coffee and cold beer, to stay awake or help you sleep. Can I get you anything?”
He smiled his appreciation. “Coffee. As black as it comes, please.”
She brought him a cup of coffee, a tumbler of ice to cool it, and a spoon.
“Thank you.” He inhaled the steam and blew on the surface. Testing the temperature, he added ice so that he could drink it sooner.
He visibly relaxed with each sip that he took. After finishing half of his cup, he thanked Beth again for the coffee and for what she’d done for Matteo. “That was a helluva job you did, Miss Shelton, considering what you had to work with. He’d have bled out if you hadn’t acted when you did. Stubborn son of a bitch.”
She shook her head, remembering. “I was so scared. I didn’t know if it would be enough. It didn’t help that he stayed supine when we were done, but he was too heavy to move. I had to leave him where he was until he regained consciousness. It took both of us to get him into an office chair and wheel him to a bed. Oh!” She turned to Marco and Tony. “Before I forget, his clothes are in the laundry room on top of the dryer. The rest of his things are inside it where he left them.”
Doc rubbed his beard shadow. “And before I forget, I have to check you for your work slip. Rumor has it that you may need to be off until Monday.”
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Beth nodded. “So I’ve heard. Just remind me when it’s daytime. Now that Matteo is in recovery, I need to catch some sleep before it’s time to start breakfast for this crew. If you gentlemen don’t mind, I’m going to lie down for a bit. There’s a sofa in the basement that’s calling my name.”
Knowing that she wouldn’t get any rest upstairs with a house full of wiseguys, Beth headed downstairs. The finished basement was a combination man cave and prepper’s paradise, with a bar, seating, and shelves stocked with food and supplies. Robbing a pillow and two blankets from the stash, she made herself a bed on one of the leather sofas, throwing a winter blanket over the cushions and covering herself with a summer-weight one. If it wasn’t enough to ward off the chill of the basement air, doubling it should do the trick.
As exhausted as she was, she didn’t fall asleep immediately. Her mind kept replaying the events of the last two days, beginning with her early-morning trip to the convenience store. After work, she had planned to go home to the cream cheese that she kept forgetting, fill wonton wrappers, and bake her favorite treat. Instead of whipping up a batch of crab Rangoon, she had found herself fighting for a man’s life.
And not just any man. Matteo was the eldest son—and likely heir apparent—to the head of an Italian-American crime family. His father literally held her life in his hands. Right now, he was grateful. And even though he wasn’t the monster that her mind had initially painted him to be—not the way that he had held her when she’d cried, she needed to remember that that could change at any time. She was going to have to exercise due caution. She must continue to prove herself to them if she hoped to get out of this alive.
Beth slept until morning. To the east, the sun was rising beyond a thick stand of trees. The only visible evidence from the basement window was the thinning darkness and the disappearing stars. Folding up the blankets that she’d used, she voided her bladder in the basement bathroom, washed her hands, checked her braid, and trudged upstairs.
There were dregs in the coffeepot. She emptied it, rinsed the pot, and started a fresh one brewing. Checking out the refrigerator, she found it stocked and ready to go. She turned on the oven, pulled what she needed from the fridge, and started cooking.
They hadn’t discussed breakfast time, but the smells were enough to draw the men in. She set up a breakfast buffet on the island with bowls of biscuits, a heaping platter of bacon, scrambled eggs, and condiments.
She was pleased with herself until she realized that she hadn’t fixed anything for Matteo. She needed to talk to Dr. Romano and see what he was allowed.
When Doc didn’t come in with the others, Beth checked Matteo’s room and found the him stretched out on the near side of the king-sized bed, as close to his patient as he could possibly get. Both men were sound asleep.
Unwilling to disturb them, she stayed by the door and watched them for a minute. Matteo’s color was vastly improved, thanks to the blood that they’d brought and the IV antibiotics being delivered through the needle in his arm. Poor Doc looked as tired as a first-year resident after a twenty-four-hour shift.
He slept as lightly as one, too. Feeling her presence, he cracked open an eye and met her gaze. She put the tips of her fingers together, did sign language for eat, and slipped out the door as quietly as she had entered.
Doc joined them in the kitchen a few minutes later.
“Here,” she said, holding out a hot cup filled with black coffee, “with my apologies. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. The smell of bacon on top of coffee did the job. I was just lazing. Gearing myself up for the day.” He lifted the coffee to his mouth and savored the first sip.
“I wanted to see what Matteo was allowed for breakfast.”
“He’ll get clear liquids to start. I had Franco pick up broth and gelatin cups with no red dye forty at the store. I may let him have coffee after that. There’s no need to torment him more than necessary. Matteo enjoys his brew.”
Shit. She had cut him off after two cups at supper last night. Now she felt like Ebenezer Scrooge for denying his request for more.
Beth turned, intending to start Matteo’s breakfast. “Beth,” Doc called. “Franco will handle it. If you haven’t had breakfast, I want you to eat now. If you’ve eaten, get whatever you want to drink, sit, and relax. I’d like to get your paperwork out of the way today, hopefully after breakfast.”
Dr. Romano did a complete history and exam on her for his back-dated records. Officially, he was a dermatologist, a specialty that would allow him to rearrange his schedule when Visconti family needs demanded his attention.
Besides the typical childhood illnesses, Beth had had her tonsils removed and had once gotten flu that dehydrated her to the point of requiring IV fluids. When he wasn’t overly concerned about the exact dates of her hospitalizations, she suspected that Mr. Visconti might have already shared her records with him.
More embarrassing was her sexual history. While it wasn’t that extensive, it did involve his boss’s son and a morning-after pill.
Doc raised a brow but said nothing. Inwardly, he was probably applauding Matteo’s ability to perform while suffering from a bullet wound to the shoulder. She didn’t tell him that she’d done ninety-five percent of the work. What’s done was done. As soon as Matteo was stable enough to move, she’d be going home with memories that she could never share and stories of an experience that must forever remain their secret.
That’s what happened when you got mixed up with the mob.
6
Dr. Romano wrote her a back-dated work slip that matched his office notes. To go one better, he had her get her purse and take a picture of it with her cell phone. “Now you have a copy of it that you can show on demand,” he explained. “It also has my office address and phone number, if you need more time off than I’ve given you.”
Beth smiled. “I should be good. I had planned to go back tomorrow. Mr. Visconti thought it was too soon.”
Doc nodded and grinned. “Dom Visconti is used to getting his way. And he does, for the most part. But then again, he’s usually right. It just takes a while for the rest of us to see it.”
Beth put her work excuse inside her e-reader’s protective cover where it would stay put. Loose, it might disappear down the black hole that seemed to exist in every purse that she owned, regardless of size. “Feel free to not answer, but how long have you been with them?”
“Since I was born,” he said, sounding bemused. “My parents were family friends. Dom Visconti is my godfather.”
The Visconti godfather was Doc’s real one. The redundancy made her smile.
“Yeah,” he said, easily following her thoughts. “Marco has a field day with that one. Don’t get him started or you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Promise,” she said. “I’m more concerned with his big brother. How is he? Did he finish his breakfast? How soon can he have coffee?”
“Improving. He finished what Franco made, and he can have coffee anytime. Would you like to take it to him? He’s been asking for you.”
“He has?” Beth felt her heart twist. He’d been asking for her and she hadn’t come. Did he think that she was avoiding him? Did he wonder if she regretted what had happened between them? How much did his fevered mind remember of their desperate joining and the therapeutic bath that had followed?
“Yes.” Doc saved his office notes on his tablet and put it back in his black medical bag. “Why don’t you check the coffee? Make a fresh pot if you need to. He likes it black. The stronger, the better.”
Beth returned to the kitchen to find that lunch preparations were already underway. Giorgio had prepped the roast beef and vegetables, tucked everything in a roaster, and set it in the convection oven to bake.
The coffee pot held two cups’ worth. Pouring herself one, she filled a cup that she hoped to palm off on someone and started a fresh batch brewing with extra grounds added.
Beyond Giorgio, the men had virtually
disappeared. Without looking, she knew there would be at least two armed soldatos patrolling the perimeter outside. No one was in the living room, which meant the rest were either in the dorm room or the basement, the two spots in the house that would hold that kind of crowd.
Her bet was downstairs, less for the bar and more for the temperature. July was bad enough in Southern Illinois, but this month had been brutal.
“Can I talk you into some coffee?” she asked Giorgio. He nodded and took it off her hands. One of the senior members of the cadre, he looked to be Dom Visconti’s contemporary, with a balding head, muscular frame, and a face that had seen its share of fights. His broken nose was mashed to one side, making him look like a retired prizefighter. But the handgun in his shoulder holster was a glaring reminder of who he was.
What he was.
Mafioso.
The world that she relished in fiction was her disturbing new reality.
Beth considered a ceramic mug for Matteo but opted for a lighter-weight disposable hot cup. Filling it three-fourths full, she made her way to his bedroom and rapped on the door.
The physician’s assistant answered it. Colin was not much taller than her five feet, five inches, with a slender build and Irish coloring, ginger hair and bright blue eyes. Judging from the way that he looked at Dr. Romano, he was either bi or gay and at least half in love with his boss.
“Hi. Doc asked me to bring Matteo coffee. Is he awake?”
Just the mention of Doc was enough for the door to open wide. “Yes. He’s up,” Colin said, speaking in the hushed tones that were suited for libraries and sick rooms. “Come on in.”
Steve, the nurse practitioner, barely gave her a glance before going back to his tablet. He was in one of the two striped chairs in the sitting area of the room. Colin had left the other one to answer the door and returned to it.