Page 205 of Vicious Intentions
“It’s okay. I’ve got it,” I mutter when my mother rushes to help me.
Yeah. Stella really did a number on me.
The doctors swear I’ll eventually walk without the cane again. Apparently, all it’ll take is a few months of physical therapy and patience.
Patience.
Funny.
I’ve always considered my abundance of patience one of my greatest strengths. I waited years to exact revenge against the Outfit. Years carefully plotting my father’s demise. I built entire empires on patience alone.
Until Anna.
The second her family stole her away from me, I lost every ounce of restraint I ever possessed.
I don’t give a shit about physical therapy. I don’t give a flying fuck about any of it.
I just need my wife back.
That’s the only thing that matters.
I press a gentle kiss on my mother’s cheek and decide it’s time to have a talk with my brothers. By the time I make it upstairs to my office, my left side is already throbbing from theeffort. I find Niccolò and Raffaele inside, while Rocco lounges across my sofa flipping through one of Anna’s favorite poetry books.
“Making yourselves at home?” I ask, drawing all three men’s attention toward me.
Raffaele is the first to cross the room and help steady me. He’s been oddly attentive lately. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think a guilty conscience was eating him alive.
“Do you want us to leave?” Niccolò asks bluntly.
“No. Stay,” I grit out, unable to mask the pain shooting through my left leg as I grip my cane tighter while Raffaele helps guide me across the room toward Niccolò. “One of us has to pick up the slack, seeing as I’m no longer fit for this job.”
Niccolò nods, his lips pressing into a thin line.
Ever since I saved Marcello’s life at that construction site in Queens, Niccolò hasn’t said more than a handful of words to me.
The only reason I know the fucker still cares about me is because I saw him completely lose his shit when our soldiers found me bleeding out on that church floor. Niccolò was beside himself, threatening to burn all of Chicago to the ground if I didn’t make it.
I was pumped so full of drugs and losing blood so rapidly that most of that night feels like a blur, but I remember hearing that much. Niccolò might still be angry with me, but he’s still my brother. He still cares, even if he doesn’t know how to show it. Then again, Donato men have never been particularly good at expressing their feelings.
“Any news?” I ask after Raffaele helps me into the chair across from my brother.
Niccolò might as well keep sitting in my seat. I have no use for a throne if I don’t have my queen beside me.
“No. Nothing yet,” Raffaele answers, sadness clouding his expression.
“And what about what I asked you to do?” My eyes settle on Niccolò. “Did you at least handle that?”
His expression remains unreadable as he leans forward, clasping his hands together.
“I delivered your message. Whether your wife received it or not, we don’t know.”
Fuck.
“Not good enough, brother,” I snap. “Anna needs to know I’m alive. If she thinks I’m dead…”
A violent shudder works through me, the thought too unbearable to even say aloud.
“As I said, I delivered your message. Whether her father chooses to pass it along or not is out of my hands,” Niccolò states, though I can tell he takes no pleasure in admitting he couldn’t get my message directly to my wife.
