“Cousin of a cousin’s best friend sort of thing at Eagle Elite,” She waves me off. “Oh, and I also slept with like at least four of the made men. They talk very highly of me.” She reaches into her purse. “Vodka?”
I shrug and grab it. “Yeah, why not.”
“Good girl.” She helps untwist the top of the small bottle and hands it to me. I take three big swigs and still don’t feel better as she puts it back into her black Prada.
Of course, she has Prada. What the hell are we paying our bodyguards anyway?
I lean my head back against the leather and take deep breaths, in and out, in and out. What’s the worst that can happen by the time we get back to the house?
I repeat that same mantra the entire way and know that even if I ask Roman or King, they’ll just lie to me, so I don’t panic. It can’t be that bad though? Can it?
My answer comes an hour later when we pull into the ginormous Campisi compound with its gorgeous house, special gate with people literally standing at it along with hidden guns trained on every single thing that approaches—cockroaches included.
The guy in the security booth nods then buzzes open the gate; the black gates creak open, revealing a familiar long driveway lined with trees and ending at a circular driveway in front of a three-story Victorian house in all brick.
My stomach drops when I see the familiar cars parked in disarray around the driveway.
Two still have doors open like someone was running.
Security is sparse, which isn’t normal.
And the front door is open.
Roman pulls the SUV to a stop, the rest of the security that had been with us at the bed and breakfast pull up behind us in their black escalades, all four of them.
My breath comes out in short spurts.
Something is very wrong.
I reach for King, but it’s Roman who turns toward me and shakes his head once, then puts his hand on King’s arm. “You have to watch your back.”
“That’s what you’re for.” King looks down at his hand then back up. “Right?”
“Thought I was for her,” Roman says jokingly.
They share a smile, and what the hell sort of alternate universe did I wake up in this morning?
“I’m ready,” King says, more to himself than the rest of the car, and I visibly see him almost get taller, straighten the collar of his gray peacoat and adjust his aviators as he gets out of the car and says, “Del. It’s time.”
Time for what?
What the hell are we walking into?
All I know is that he must need me because he stops when he gets out of the car and holds out his hand. I grab it immediately, and then we start to walk through that open door and into an eerily quiet house.
I see Chase first, bandages covering his entire right arm. He’s holding a bottle of whiskey and looks like he wishes he were dead.
The rest of the bosses start to come out of the woodwork, watching us make our way up the stairs.
And that’s when I see them—the cousins, his brother, the people who clearly want him dead, or so he found out. Each of them, even Serena, won’t make eye contact with us.
It’s like we’re walking toward someone’s funeral, and still, I want to throw myself in front of King as we walk.
Valerian, his brother, suddenly appears at the top of the stairway. “He was asking for you earlier.”
King squeezes his eyes shut and exhales. “How bad?”
Valerian shakes his head. “We won’t know until he’s out of the coma.”
My knee’s buckle. Who’s in the coma? Who?
“Understood.” King starts to move, then stops and looks over his shoulder. “Whoever the fuck wants to kill me needs to take this moment as a cease-fire. Give me at least ten damn minutes with him before you start manipulating this situation, this potential loss, or I swear I will kill everyone present no matter how much blood we share.”
Gasps erupt around us.
Including my own.
Valerian stumbles back like he’s been betrayed, then meets my gaze and nods like it’s okay.
When there is nothing about this that’s okay!
I can hear my own breathing, feel my heart beat faster and faster as I cling to King’s hand.
We walk side by side into the master bedroom.
Where Tex Campisi, our Capo, lies.
Nearly dead.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Ready my knights for battle. They will ride with their king once more. I have lived through others for far too long. Lancelot carried my honor, and Guinevere, my guilt. Mordred bears my sins. My knights have fought my causes. Now, my brother, I shall be… king.”—Excalibur
King
My dad has always been larger than life. He’s been this huge muscled, hilarious pain-in-the-ass sort of superhero that even Batman or an Avenger couldn’t beat. I remember watching those movies growing up and almost laughing, like what? That’s all you got? Have you ever met my dad?
I’m not proud of it, but when… ahem, one of the key heroes died in Avengers, I started laughing like a sadistic fuck only to have my mom come running out with a smile that turned to a frown like I was one of those freaky kids who was going to start murdering my own pets and end up on Dateline.
“Mama.” I laughed harder. “He’s so weak!”
I was twelve.
Mom knelt next to me. “Who is?”
“Him,” I pointed at the TV. “Dad would never die so easy. Never!”
Tears filled her eyes as she pulled me against her. “Nah, Dad’s superhuman, right?”
“Right.” I was almost angry that the TV would show me something so wrong and against what I’ve always believed because if a superhero could die—did that mean he could too? No, I refused to believe it, so I rejected it to the point of living in a reality that meant Dad would always be big, strong; he would always protect even if it meant it was protecting you from yourself.
I lifted my head. “I’m going to be like him.”
“Aw, you want to be like Iron Man?”
I scoffed. “No Mom, duh, he saved the world but come on—I want to be like dad.”
She was quiet for a minute. “But dad didn’t save the world like Iron Man?”
“Yeah, he did,” I argued. “He saved us, remember? All those stories? All those times he saved the Families? He’s saved us even when he was afraid, and he said, he said—” I stumbled over my words. “He said he’d save us forever no matter what.” I looked up at my mom. “And I believe him. Don’t you?”
My mom was silent for a moment, then ran her fingers through my unruly hair only to cup my cheeks and whisper. “Until it ends. He will protect you until it ends, son.”
Tears stream down my cheeks as I stare at the bed, at my larger-than-life father lying there, his arms neatly placed at his sides, the scars of wars from the past few years covering his arms along with a few bandages and then one wrapped around his head.
Mom is sitting in a chair next to him, her feet tucked up underneath her looking like she’s thirty versus nearing her fifties.
She’s beautiful with gorgeous jet-black hair lying in waves around her shoulders as she shudders against the giant black blanket someone already put on her. I’m assuming she’s wearing her typical outfit while at home, some sort of lululemon shirt and pant combo so she can do yoga at any point in the day at any area of the house.