He takes the plastic device from me with a grumble. I’ve learned quickly that despite being the head of the Chicago Irish Syndicate, he’s like every other man I’ve treated when they’re in pain… needy and grumpy.
I watch him take a deep breath in and blow it out with a few colorful curses. “Go on. We can watch an episode ofLove Is Blindwhen you’re done.”
His chest rises with a chuckle, then he winces. Yeah, those two broken ribs are still healing. Wrapping his lips around the mouthpiece, he sucks in a slow breath.
I cross my arms and watch as he struggles to keep the ball in the target zone.
With an encouraging tone, I say, “Hold for three. That’s it. Now let it out slowly.”
He’s a bit out of breath but recovers quicker than last week. “Good. Let’s go again.”
His blue eyes sparkle as they narrow on me. “You missed you calling, love. Would’ve made a hell of an enforcer.”
I puff out a laugh. I’ve gotten used to their dark humor. I’m not sure what that says about me or my state of mind. I make him go through the exercise twice more before I readjust his bed. Then have him lie back so I can check his chest tube site.
He unzips his grey silk tracksuit for me and exposes his chest. Besides the two-centimeter wound from the chest tube and the still-healing bullet wound, he’s got a dozen other scars marring his pale skin. At least one of them is from another bullet.
As a surgeon, I’ve seen my fair share of injuries. But scars interest me more. They are echoes of stories. Stories of violence, yes, but also of survival. Of how much a human can endure and still want to keep breathing. From personal experience, I know it’s a hell of a lot. That resilience is what I place my faith in, with my patients… and myself.
“Looks good, Mac. Healing well, no sign of infection.” I lower myself into the recliner next to the bed and turn on the flat screen TV. “And your reward to is to find out if Virginia says yes at the altar.”
He zips up his jacket and adjusts the bed. “If she does, you owe me a shot of whiskey.”
I snort because there’s no way she says yes. “You’re on.”
Chapter 4
Killian
Ineed to take a break and check on Da. Mam has been here for three weeks, but she had to leave yesterday to go back and take care of some family business with Bran, our oldest brother.
Knowing Da, if he gets antsy, he’s liable to take himself for a stroll. We haven’t been able to work out who put out the hit on him yet, so we don’t know if he’s still in danger.
The fucker shot him from a boat twenty yards away. By the time Sandro’s guards found a boat to chase him, he was a ghost. The bullet that hit Da was a 22-caliber from a long rifle. Bloody good shot. The assassin is going to wish for a quick death when we find him. He’ll get no such mercy.
I steer my black Mercedes over the Davis Islands Bridge and around the west side of Davis Island. This is the kind of neighborhood where you’re not just buying a house but status and famous neighbors. The kind of ridiculous neighborhood that employs obsessive landscapers who make sure every bleedin’ weed, every brown palm frond is dispatched, and every blade of grass is the same height and color. It boggles the mind how much humans need to control everything.
After ten minutes of slow-rolling down roads that look like a feckin’ country club, I pull up to the wrought-iron gates of the 15,000 square foot, modern Bay-front mansion Sandrobought for my half-sister Lennon. As far as wedding presents go, this one’s a bit over the top.
Sandro waited until we knew Da was out of the woods to bring us all out here to surprise Lennon. She was completely embarrassed and horrified by it, admonishing Sandro that it was too much, and she’d never be able to keep a place that big clean.
I’d snorted at that. “Ya think you’ll be liftin’ a finger, Sis? You’ll have more employees than a McDonald's here.”
That didn’t seem to make her feel better. She just turned an adorable shade of pink and glared at Sandro. “We’ll discuss this… in private.”
I guess they worked out the logistics because while they’ve been on their honeymoon in Sicily for the past two weeks, it’s being painted, furnished and updated security measures added. They’re due back tomorrow.
My new brother-in-law also had a second-floor room fitted as a recovery unit for Da to stay in until he can return to Chicago. Sully and I appreciate the gesture.
I tailed my half-sister for weeks when we first found out about her, thinking I was going to have to start a war with the bleedin’ Italians to keep her safe from them. Turned out the joke was on me. Sandro’s totally gone for the lass, would do anything for her. And by extension, us.
There’s a new fence in front of the ten-foot bushes between the neighboring mansions. A few armed lads walk the perimeter. I’m sure he had to grease a few palms to get that approved by the HOA. I chuckle to myself. Or maybe just growl a few threats. That seems to be more his style.
The two soldiers at the front of the house lift a hand in greeting as I pull around the circular drive and hit the remote toopen the double garage doors on the right. There’s a second set on the left, and both lead to the 5,000-square-foot, ground level space that can house eight cars.
In between there is a dramatic staircase running up to the front doors. The doors open up into a cavernous two-story foyer where you’re hit right in the feckin’ eyeballs with a breathtaking view of the Bay. The sunsets actually steal the breath from your lungs.
Instead of taking the stairs, I round the cars to the elevator. Sandro’s younger brother Rocco’s red Bugatti is one of the cars. Hopefully I can avoid him today. He’s less polished than Sandro and a bit of a hothead. Literally. The lad is always itching to burn something to the ground.
