“Luca—”
“No. And that is my final decision on the matter.” He opens his mouth, but I talk over him. “Do notspeak to me of Italy again.”
His face goes pale. “Do not speak tomelikethatagain, Luca. I’m not your fucking underling. And right now, I still get to make decisions about your medical care. So fucking push the button and stop lying there panting and sweating because of the pain. You look like shit.”
We’re both pissed off, devolving into petty bickering. But I can’t stop the twitching of my mouth. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”
I let him put the pain relief button into my palm.
“If you don’t want the drugs, baby, I’ll take them instead,” he says, his eyes still intense.
I know when I’m beaten. I hit the button, and a moment later, relief floods through me. “Mother Mary, that’s good,” I murmur, relaxing back into the pillows. I try to keep my eyes open. I want Finch to understand. “Angel.”
“What is it?” He’s back to playing nursemaid, tucking my sheets in around me where I’ve pulled them free.
“If I leave New York, it’s an abdication. Don’t you understand?”
“If you leave New York, you can recover, come back stronger. You can makealliesin Italy—God knows the Morellis could use a few more.”
“If I leave, the Clemenzas will tear this place apart. Don’t youseethat? I can’t turn tail and run. I can’t—I can’tretreat. Augustus never retreated. Julius Caesar never retreated. Alexander the Great—”
“I don’tcareabout dead fucking Romans!” he shouts. “I care aboutyou, you obstinate asshole! Andyouare goddamn retreating, Luca.”
I’m too tired for this, to explain it all to him. Too tired to even point out that Alexander the Great was no Roman. I’m slipping back into sleep again, and for the moment, at least, I think Finch is right about retreating.
I will retreat to the safety of sleep and continue this battle with him when I wake again.
* * *
Unfortunately—orperhaps fortunately—we are not alone the next time I wake.
“Eyyyy, Georgie!” Something out of a nightmare looms over me, and a hand claps against my cheek.
I squint up at the craggy face in front of me and, despite the fact that he’s a stupid fool who should have stayed in Italy where I sent him, I’ve never been so happy to see my big brother as I am right now.
“Frankie,” I choke out, and he leans in to kiss my forehead and pinch my cheek.
“Careful,” says an amused Finch from the other side of the bed. “He’s still in a lot of pain.”
“No way,” Frank says, glancing at Finch. “Us D’Amatos don’t feel pain like other men. We’re way too tough.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Finch myself,” I murmur, and they both laugh. Apparently Finch is in a better mood now. Good. Because after my rest, I’m looking forward to explaining to Finch exactly why this Italian getaway idea is such a bad one.
But Finch forestalls me, shoving the goddamn straw back in my mouth. I suck up the water greedily, and he lets me have more this time, but I am very much over being treated like an invalid. I feelmuchstronger now.
I push the bottle away and try to sit up, swallowing down a bark of pain.
“What the hell are you doing?” Finch snaps.
“Sitting up,” I snap back.
He rolls his eyes and picks up another button, which raises the head of the bed a few inches. I’m not anywhere near sitting, but I’m not lying down so flat that they both have to lean over me. “I can do that,” I say, trying to reach for the button, but Finch ignores me, and my hand, somehow, is just too heavy to move right now. I sigh and turn my attention to Frank, who’s grinning at me. “Frankie, what the hell are you doing back here?” I ask.
His grin only gets bigger. “Aw, you can’t boss me around no more, Georgie. You kicked me out of the Family yourself, eh? Bet you regret it now.”
I would never tell anyone this—not even Finch—but there are times when I do regret giving Frank permission to leave. Not even permission: Iorderedhim gone. He had sacrificed too much for me. Looking at his ravaged face, the eye patch, the scars, the missing hand, I know again that I did the right thing.
But I still miss him, much more than I thought I would.
