13

Chapter 13
Dominic
The sound of a gunshot rips through the air.
Restaurant patrons scream as they trample over each other, scrambling for the nearest exit. Dishes break, glass shatters, tables flip over in all the confusion and chaos, but I remain focused. Fear doesn’t serve me, and if I want to get Arin out of here alive, I can’t afford to panic.
I drag her toward the kitchens, ignoring the confused shouts of the kitchen staff as we barrel on through toward the back exit. Our pursuers are hot on our tail, trailing behind us by only a few feet. One of them takes another shot. The bullet hits one of the roaring hood fans.
This isn’t good for a multitude of reasons. Someone’s going to get hurt, and there’s a very good chance it will be a civilian. The fact that they’re making a move in broad daylight is also a massive pain in the ass. There’s no shortage of witnesses, and the police are definitely going to be involved.
Not to mention how this complicates matters for me. What the fuck is Renato thinking, calling for an open hit on the right-hand man of another capo? This is a very firm declaration of war, which means things are about to get ugly. Now that my boss has been out of town long enough, Renato probably thought this was as good a time as any to move in on his racket.
One of our assailants gains on me, snatching me by the shoulder. Relying on instincts alone, I whip around and nail the fucker square in the jaw. He reels back, falling to the slippery tile floors below. But the other three aren’t far behind him, charging toward us with murder in their eyes.
“Dominic!” Arin screams. “Duck!”
My body reacts before my brain can, dipping out of the way just as Arin picks up a nearby pot of boiling water. She throws it at the nearest man, scalding his face and body. He groans in agony, his flesh already blistering.
A third assailant lunges at me, attempting to pummel me with his closed fists. I managed to block two of his swings before he abandons the idea and
snatches a sharp kitchen knife. He swipes at me, once, twice, slicing through my shirt.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a sizzling cast iron skillet. I grab it by the handle and launch it at his head. I don’t much care for the sound of searing skin, but the crack of the hard metal against his skull is satisfying as fuck.
There’s only one left now, the one who’s been firing at us. Seething, he trains his sights on Arin, his finger hovering over the trigger.
“Stay out of this, you fucking bitch!”
I can’t remember what happens next. The rest of the world fades; Arin is the only one I can concentrate on. She’s a beacon, impossible to look away from. My body is tired and heavy, but I rush toward her anyway, shielding her just as the thunderous bang of another gunshot reaches my ear. Pain explodes through my body, the bullet lodging itself into the front of my shoulder.
Much to my relief, Arin is unharmed. Traumatized probably, but there isn’t a mark on her.
I hear the click, click, click of an empty gun. The fucker’s out of bullets. Now it’s time to run.
I take Arin’s hand again and pull her toward the back exit. We practically fall out of the building onto the busy streets of New York, the overwhelming sound of traffic and people disorienting me. The warm trickle down my back and the smell of iron in my nose isn’t a good sign. I really hope the bullet didn’t hit anything important. Bleeding out today would be a massive inconvenience.
“Oh my God, Dom, we need to get you to the hospital!” “No,” I rasp. “No hospital.”
“But you’ve been shot!”
As much as I appreciate Arin’s concern, going to the hospital simply isn’t an option. Arin probably doesn’t know that when it comes to gunshot wounds, medical staff are obligated to call the police. And if the police are there, they’re going to start asking questions. And if they start asking questions… Let’s just say I’d rather end up dead than revealing anything about the Family or our operations.
When Elio called and told me our laundromats near 27th Street had been taken out, I knew something big was going down. Those businesses are close to the edge of Renato’s territory, making them an easy target to claim for
himself. I had Elio wait with the car, but now he’s nowhere in sight. The last thing he told me was he spotted Renato’s men approaching, but now I’m worried he’s also being pursued.
“Come on,” I tell her, holding her hand tightly. “Where are we going?”
“I need to get you out of here. We’re taking the subway.” “Are you fucking kidding me? Dom, the hospital is —”
I turn and grasp her by the shoulders, looking her directly in the eye. “Marina, listen to me very carefully because I’m only going to say this once. We’re going to take the subway and I’m going to see you safely home. After that, I want you to remain indoors until I can confirm everything’s safe. I won’t have you questioning me on this.”
She presses her lips into a thin line, her frosty grey eyes full of fear, confusion, and a touch of anger as well. Now that Renato’s men have seen Arin’s face, I’ve effectively put a target on her back. If they’re stupid enough to come after her to get to me, they’ve got another think coming.
After a brief second, Arin nods. “Let’s go,” I tell her, leading the way.
The subway train is crowded today, but nobody pays me and my bloody shirt any attention. This is New York, after all. There’s far freakier shit to gawk at than a man in rough shape. People give me and Arin a wide berth, their eyes glued to their phones. I do get an occasional look, but they’re quick to mind their own business.
I lose track of how many stops we pass, but Arin’s thankfully keeping count. I struggle to stand up right, the pain in my back blooming up to the base of my neck. Even though we’re out of immediate danger, my heart won’t stop pounding. The sounds of gunfire echoes around inside my skull, reawakening the dreaded memories of the day I lost my brother.
I was able to protect Arin, but I couldn’t do the same for Tommaso.
No matter what I try, I can’t get the image of his bloody face out of my head or the way his broken body felt in my arms. My hands shake and my breaths tighten, the ache in my chest unbearable.
This is exactly why I wanted to keep my distance from her, but I couldn’t stay away. There’s no fighting this inexplicable pull towards her. I’m a moth and she’s a flame, one that was almost snuffed out because I was careless enough to let my guard down.
“This is our stop,” Arin whispers.
I’m vaguely aware of the way she’s looking at me, her hand braced on my hip like I’m about to topple over any second now. The poor woman is scared half to death, but it’s sweet that her concern is solely on me.
She sticks close as we climb the stairs to exit the train station. I’m not sure if I’m pulling her toward me, or if she’s clinging to my arm of her own volition. Either way, the press of her body is a massive comfort. We make our way down the street as fast as we can until we reach a rundown apartment building that’s no doubt seen better days.
My lip curls when I see the graffitied walls, boarded up windows, and flickering stoop light. I’m not sure if the pain is making me delirious, but I can’t stop thinking about how Arin deserves more than this. She deserves a nice apartment in a safe neighborhood, not this dump of a place to call home.
By some miracle, I have enough energy to climb the steps to her apartment on the third floor. I must be losing a lot of blood, because I don’t even put up a fight when Arin sits me down on her corduroy couch. She slips off my jacket and undoes the buttons of my shirt, carefully peeling away the red-soaked fabric.
“Stay here,” she says, scurrying down the hall to look for something.
My fingers are going numb. I hope to God I’m not going to suffer permanent nerve damage. I rifle through my pants pocket until I find my phone, texting Elio Arin’s address.
If you’re alive, come pick me up. Bring painkillers.
Arin returns with a damp cloth, standing close and gingerly wiping at my wound, washing away the blood that’s trickled down my back. As she does, I look at our surroundings. Her place is cramped, but very homey. Her furniture is mismatched, but it comes across more charming than disorganized. The walls are covered in framed pictures, there are various books and magazines piled in high stacks on the numerous shelves and coffee tables. Large spools of fabric are gathered in one corner of the living room, Arin’s work life spilling into her personal one.
A bountiful collection of toys, pastel throw blankets, and baby shoes near the door are evidence a child lives her as well. I catch a glimpse of a big Huggies diaper box shoved into the bottom of the hallway closet, along with burping cloths and bibs. But the more I look around, the more I notice something strange.
In almost all the pictures, Arin and the girl, Felicia, are together. At the
zoo, swimming together at the public pool, together at the carnival getting their faces painted. The more I look at them together, the weirder I feel. They look… really alike. And the fact that there are next to no pictures of Felicia and Arin’s roommate, Lana, makes me more suspicious.
Arin clicks her tongue. “I think the bullet’s still lodged in there. I have a bit of first aid training, but I’d rather not risk getting it out myself.”
“Leave it,” I say, watching her carefully. “Elio’s coming to stitch me up, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
She worries her bottom lip with her teeth, applying a bit of pressure to staunch the bleeding. “You were lying to me before,” she says. Her tone is soft, but her accusation rings loud and clear.
I grind my teeth, studying her carefully. “You lied to me, too.” Arin swallows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Slowly, I reach for the picture frame propped up on the side table next to me. It’s of Arin holding the little girl, kissing her cheeks while Felicia laughs brightly at the camera. The guilt written all over Arin’s face is answer enough.
“She’s your daughter,” I say as calmly as possible. “How old is she?” A part of me already knows the answer.
Arin sucks in a breath through clenched teeth. “Four years and three months.”
I stand, too overwhelmed to speak. Four years and three months… If I factor in the nine months it takes to carry a child, then that means… “She’s mine?”
She nods slowly, tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes. God help me, yes.”