Taken: A Dark Italian Mafia Romance (Men of Mayhem Book 3) Page 6

  “You did know better,” I hiss. “Remember? It was part of the deal.”

  “You asshole! I’m not a homewrecker!” she screeches, throwing one of her shoes at me and hitting the wall instead. The heel leaves a black mark with a dent.

  I lift an eyebrow. “I don’t appreciate people coming into my house and messing up my shit. I tried to be nice. Now I’ll just tell you to get the fuck out of here.”

  She shoots me one final glare as she pulls on her jeans and stomps toward the front door. “I hope this Gemma bitch is worth it!” She grasps the knob and turns back to flip me off before pulling it open. “And it’s Carrie, not Cami, asshole!”

  A heavy feeling settles deep into my chest, and it’s not because I had the wrong name.

  I grab my keys and run out of the house, jumping into my car and speeding toward the hospital. My pulse throbs harder and harder as I get hit with every red light in my path. My tires squeal as I zoom into the parking lot and screech to a halt in a spot very clearly marked as one reserved for a doctor.

  I take my chances that said doctor isn’t on call today.

  I jog through the revolving doors and head for reception where I’m stopped by a petite nurse with flaming red hair and bright red lips. “Name?”

  “Mine or the person I’m here to see?” I pant, too flustered to even think clearly.

  She grins at me. “Well, as much as I’d like to know your name, I need the name of the person you’re here to see.”

  “Gemma Cassarella,” I pant, winded from my jog. “She was brought in a little while ago for her knee.”

  The nurse furrows her brow. “Oh, right. Poor thing. She’s really beside herself. We had to give her a sedative to settle her down. The transport for her MRI will be here in about ten minutes.” She pauses, lifting an eyebrow. “And you are?”

  “Her brother.” I don’t miss a beat.

  The nurse smirks. “Sure, you are,” she says, nodding her head toward the door. “Come with me.”

  I follow her down a maze of hallways until she stops in front of an open door. The nurse looks at me. “You’ve got about ten minutes. Make them count, loverboy.”

  I cross the space between the door and Gemma’s bed in a couple of steps. She raises her violet-colored eyes to mine. They’re so heavy with sleep. I stroke the side of her face. “Gem, how do you feel?”

  She lets out a deep sigh. “Numb,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face. “They gave me medicine for the pain, but I just feel too empty right now. Like there’s nothing left inside of me. Nothing.” With a loud sniffle, she whispers, “I was going in for a save, and right as I was about to kick, the ball switched direction. I went after it, but I twisted my leg too fast and when I started to run…” Her voice trails off, and another loud sob erupts from her chest.

  I lean over the bed and lace my fingers with hers, not acknowledging the fact that her parents or Gio might walk in here at any minute.

  I really don’t care.

  She called me. She needed me.

  For once, I’m going to give her exactly what she wants, what she’s wanted for so long, and what I keep rejecting. I’m not thinking about danger or consequence or betrayal of trust.

  I’m thinking about Gemma.

  What she needs.

  And what I desperately want for myself.

  “The doctor who came in before doesn’t think I’ll be able to play again,” she whispers, her lips trembling. “At least, not competitively. They took X-rays.” She sniffles. “I tore my ACL and my MCL. The damage is really bad.”

  “They need to look again. That’s why they’re doing the MRI, right? To confirm? Maybe it’s not as bad as they thought. People recover from this kind of injury all the time,” I say, talking out of my ass because what the hell do I know about this shit? But right now, Gemma needs assurance that her life isn’t over, not by a long shot. And the expression on her face tells me there isn’t much I can say to convince her otherwise. “They can fix you, Gem,” I murmur. “This is their job.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m so scared. What am I going to do? I’ve always only been about soccer. I don’t know anything else. I never cared enough to learn anything else.” The tears flow from her red-rimmed eyes and I cover her hands with mine, my heart throbbing inside of my chest.

  “You could always be my sous chef,” I say, my lips quirking upward in a fucking lame ass attempt at humor.

  “You know I can’t cook,” she says in a quivery voice. “I only like to eat, which is going to be a real problem since I won’t be able to work off your desserts anymore.”

  Oh Christ, do I have plenty of ideas about all the ways she can work off that sugar…ideas that I’ve fantasized about over and over again.

  “I have nothing, Tommy,” she murmurs, giving my fingers a tight squeeze and staring at our hands clasped together as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You’re here now, but you’ll go. You always-s go. You’re paid to be here. And then I’ll be alone again. Empty.” Her voice slurs slightly and I catch a glimpse of the IV hanging on a rod next to her bed.

  “Gem,” I say under my breath. “I’m always here for you.”

  “Yeah, until Papa has-s a job for you to do. And then you’ll leave. I’m just a way for you to pass-s the time.” She takes in a sharp breath and shifts on the bed, her eyes drooping and her grip on me loosening. But her mouth continues forming words that make my gut clench, words she’s never spoken before because I’ve never seen her this doped up before. It’s pretty goddamn illuminating, but it scares the shit out of me at the same time because I know there’s no happy ending for us. It doesn’t stop me from obsessing about her, though. My mind and my hand are my own to use however the hell I want. “You don’t really care about me. If you did, you’d s-stay instead of running away all the time. You’d pay attention when I dress-s up for you. And you’d…” Her voice trails off, and I swallow hard. Her eyelids finally flutter closed as if they’re too heavy to stay open.

  My throat constricts like there’s a hand around it, squeezing the shit out of it and crushing my windpipe.

  Much like it would feel if Freddie walked in and overheard this whole exchange. He’d choke the life right outta me.

  “I notice everything,” I say, my voice gruff. “Why do you think I hang around after Gio goes out for the night? Why do you think I bake so many damn cookies every week?”

  The corners of her mouth curl upward the slightest bit. “Cookies-s. I love yo-your cookies-s…” she breathes. Her eyes open a crack, just enough for me to see the flicker of something…maybe hope?...in the depths before they snap shut again.

  I dip my head lower, my voice thick. “And why would I run over here the second you call and say you’re hurt?” I grip her hand tight and hover over her, my lips so close to hers. “It’s because I love you, Gem. I’m crazy about you. I always have been, and I always will be.”

  But this time, her eyes don’t open again.

  I stare at her for what seems like hours, memorizing every detail about her face — spots of pink in her cheeks, a tiny scar above her right eyebrow from a kick to the head during her short time as goalie, long, dark eyelashes framing her eyes, perfect lips slightly parted as she expels soft breaths.

  Saying I love her is the understatement of the century.

  I fucking adore her.

  That’s why I hope when she wakes up that she forgets every last word I said.

  If she doesn’t, we’re both fucked.

  But even though I know the risks and what we both might face as a result, I still can’t walk out that door. I can’t bring myself to leave her alone like this.

  I can’t—

  “Okay, Mr. Cassarella,” the red-haired nurse says with a little snicker. “Your sister’s chariot awaits.” She peeks behind me and nods. “Okay, I’m glad to see she’s resting. She was in really bad shape when they brought her in.”

  “Yeah,” I rasp. “I, uh, need to call my, ah, pa
rents. I’ll be in the waiting room.”

  The nurse smiles. “She’s in good hands with the best doctors. You can tell your parents not to worry.”

  She waves in the orderlies and they slide Gemma’s limp form onto a gurney and wheel her out of the room.

  My heart sinks lower and lower into my gut with every step they take her farther away from me.

  I follow the nurse out of the room, my shoulders sagging. I sweep my hand through my hair and nearly slam right into Gio, who is standing right outside of the door with his arms folded over his chest. His eyes are hard, his gaze angry.

  “Tommy,” he snarls and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle.

  “Who are you?” the nurse asks. “Only immediate family are allowed back here!”

  But he doesn’t look at her. His focus is square on my face.

  “I’m her brother,” he grunts, his fists clenched.

  The nurse smiles. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize there were two of you.” She walks back to the reception area.

  “Me either,” Gio says through gritted teeth. “Funny meeting you here, brother.”

  I’ll never forget the tone of his voice when he said that word.

  Brother.

  Like a poison he was trying to rid from his body.

  Just like I’m a poison he’s trying to rid from his life, a constant reminder that he’s never been good enough. And now that Freddie is gone, he’ll never get the chance to prove his father wrong.

  An icy hand wraps around my heart and squeezes.

  I know that feeling well.

  Click, click, click.

  My eyes fly open, the memories of my father fading at the sound as it gets closer and closer.

  A tiny part of me wants to believe it’s Gemma’s high heels clicking on the shiny tiled floor as she walks toward me. My God, if that really happened, I’d tell her the goddamn truth. I’d watch her face as the words tumbled from my lips, to make sure she heard each and every word. And then I’d run away with her, keeping her safe forever. I’d never let anything hurt her ever again.

  Fuck the consequences!

  But when my eyes connect with her mother’s, my heart sinks into my shoes.

  A harsh reminder that I had my chance and completely fucking wasted it.

  I don’t know if I’ll get another one.

  I stand up as Marchella Cassarella staggers toward me. Her face is streaked with black eye makeup, spots of bright red staining her cheeks. But it’s her eyes I can’t look away from. They look so empty.

  Soulless.

  Lost.

  I put my arms around her and hug her tight. She looks like she’s on another planet right now, and to be honest, I’m not sure if she even realizes whose got his arms around her.

  If her son wasn’t such a fucking self-centered asshole, he’d be the one embracing her. Not me.

  I rub her back, feeling her labored breaths as she quietly sobs into my chest. We stand there for the longest minutes of my life. The words are on the tip of my tongue and all I want to do is ask the question weighing on me…

  Is Gemma going to be okay?

  She finally pulls away and sinks into a chair. I drop into the one next to her and she grabs my hand, clasping hers around it. She looks at me, her lips fighting to lift into a smile that just won’t come. “Thank you for being here, Tommy,” she says in a tearful whisper. “You’ve always been so good to us — to Freddie, to Gio, to Gemma, and me. I know my husband would appreciate knowing you’re here with us now.”

  “There’s nowhere else I’d want to be,” I say in a choked voice. “I’m so sorry about Freddie.”

  She nods, tears pooling in her eyes again. “Thank you. You know he loved you, right? Even if it didn’t always seem that way.”

  “He was tough to his core,” I say, forcing a smile. “I never took offense to any of it, though.”

  “You always had a pretty thick skin.” She sighs and sits back against the chair.

  I take a gamble and ask the question that’s been festering on the tip of my tongue. “H-how’s Gem?”

  Her eyes drop, and I swallow hard.

  No, no, no!

  “No news yet,” she finally says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She swipes under her eyes, rubbing at the stubborn black stains that refuse to come off of her skin.

  I let out a slow, uneasy breath. No news is good news. That’s what my father always said, anyway.

  But to me, no news means there’s still room for bad shit to bubble up.

  “Do they know when—?”

  “Tommy,” Marchella interrupts, looking at me. “Where is Gio?”

  I shrug. “He took off before. Didn’t say where he was going.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t lose him, too. Does he know who did this? Do you?”

  “Marco DeVito was involved.” His cell phone burns a hole in my pocket, but I don’t tell her I have it. Whoever made that call was in on the hit. The question is, how the fuck do I find them?

  Making them suffer is the easy part. Payback is my specialty.

  I serve it up in the most vicious and brutal ways possible, another reason why Freddie picked me for his inner circle.

  What can I say? My chef tools come in handy for way more than just carving roasts and chopping celery and onions.

  “Is someone looking for Marco now?” she asks.

  I rub the back of my neck. “Probably.”

  She lifts an eyebrow. “And will they find him?”

  I clear my throat. “Only if they look in the back of Devo’s trunk.”

  Her shoulders sag and she covers her face with her hands. “Who did it? Did Gio kill him?”

  I’m quiet for a second. It always shocked me how much Freddie told his wife about his business and his world — key players, enemies, allies, businesses. And of course, he told her about every shit storm Gio caused and that I was brought in partly to keep him on a tight leash. Marchella always knew a hell of a lot more than my mother ever did when she was alive. Then again, maybe that was my father’s way of making sure she left this world in peace as opposed to being on her deathbed, riddled with fear and panic for what might become of her family.

  Thinking back, I guess my father had at least one merciful bone in his body.

  Who knew?

  He sure as hell never flashed that card to any of his kids.

  I rake a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”

  “Because he was working against Freddie?”

  “No.” I collapse back against the chair. “It was jealousy. He thought Marco was going to try and cut him down.”

  Marchella shakes her head. “Their relationship was so toxic,” she murmurs. “No matter how many times I told Freddie to make things right, that there was still time to salvage it, he never did. He was always so preoccupied with his work.” She sniffles, wiping her nose with a handkerchief. “And Gemma’s soccer career,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

  Yeah, Freddie was Gemma’s second-biggest fan.

  “I’m concerned he’s going to get himself into trouble,” she says in a low voice. “Or worse. The polizia are all over this because of Freddie, and I’m worried if Gio does something, he’ll play right into their hands. They’re looking to track down the killers. If it comes out that Marco was working against Freddie, if they find Marco’s body…” she shakes her head. “I can’t lose Gio, too.”

  I slide my arm around her shoulders. “I won’t let that happen,” I say, my voice thick.

  I can’t.

  It’s still my job.

  Chapter Six

  Gemma

  I turn into the circular driveway and gently press my foot on the brakes as my brand-new silver Audi R8 glides to a stop in front of Tommy’s house. I know the Marcone family has several properties scattered throughout Sicily, but this is the house he grew up in. When his father died, his brothers and sister split up the real estate and this was where Tommy chose to stay.

  It took a
lot of dough kneading, flour sifting, and cookie dough mixing to get that information out of him.

  Over the past few months, I’ve found that baking makes him more loose-lipped.

  I’ve learned more about him and his past in the last few months since my knee injury than over the entire year he’d been working for my father. I know he’d only been joking about me becoming his sous chef that day in the hospital, but now that I have all this time on my hands, it kind of feels like I’ve become just that.

  But it’s not enough. I still want more, and deep down, I hope he does, too.

  Sometimes, Tommy has a lot to say. He’s told me about his family and what it was like growing up with so many siblings. He jokes a lot and makes fun of them, but I can tell they’re all close. I miss that with Gio. He’s always looked out for me, just like you’d expect an older brother to do, but he’s never really there. The huge chip on his shoulder makes it hard to get too close. He’s always angry. Vengeful. And kind of scary, if I’m being honest. He doesn’t really know me, and there’s a shit ton I don’t know about him, either. That worries me a lot, but there’s not much I can do when he’s always pushing me away.

  Maybe one day he’ll let me in…before it’s too late.

  I pick up the gift-wrapped journal on the passenger seat and slip it into my Prada handbag, careful as I step out of the car. My knee gets stronger with each passing day, but I know my soccer career is over for good. The surgery repaired the tears to my knee, but the loss looms over me like an ominous black cloud. I struggle a lot with that on a daily basis, and journaling helps.

  It’s also opened my eyes to a lot more than just what I lost that day on the field. It’s given me real clarity about what I want my future to look like…or more specifically, who I want in it. And today, on the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I think it’s time I share it with Tommy.

  A shiver runs through me as I climb the large stone steps toward the front door and lift the brass knocker. After only a couple of quick hits against the door, it opens and the delicious scents of vanilla and coconut consume my senses. My stomach rumbles, giving Tommy its own greeting.