Page 139

The boots move past me.

More shouting down the hall. More doors breaking. More orders I can't follow.

I keep my hands on the stone and say his name again.

"Valentino."

Like someone in this house might hear me and bring him back.

Valentino

Pain wakes me first.

I'm face-down on a table, and someone is stitching my back.

The needle pulls. Thread follows. Every pass drags fire from my shoulder blade down toward my hip, and the last thing I remember comes back in pieces.

The rope.

Enzo.

Stone under my feet.

Amanda.

I push up on my forearms, and the room tilts.

"Resti fermo." A hand presses my shoulder down. Gentle. Professional. Useless. "Signore, resti fermo, per favore."

I turn my head as far as I can. White walls. A monitor beeping beside me. Clear fluid dripping from a bag into a line taped to my hand.

A hospital.

What the fuck?

The last thing I remember is the rope and the dark coming up fast. Either I'm dead and hell has terrible lighting, or someone pulled me out of Enzo Basile's house before he finished the job.

Neither tells me where Amanda is.

I push again.

Pain slams through me hard enough to make my vision white out, and a doctor steps into my line of sight before I get far. Young. Glasses. Tired in the way men get tired after arguing with idiots who keep trying to bleed on their floor.

"Deve restare fermo," he says, palms raised. "Le stiamo riducendo la schiena. Quaranta punti, forse di più. Se si muove, ricominciamo da capo."

Forty stitches. Maybe more.

Enzo meant it, then.

"Where is she?" My voice sounds like gravel.

The doctor opens his mouth, but another man steps in front of him.

"Mr. Conti." American. Suit. Badge. "Special Agent Dern, FBI."

Perfect.

I get beaten unconscious with a rope and wake up to federal law enforcement. Some men get angels.