Playing with Fire (11 page)

“You were the one invited.” Reign knelt there with her dark hair in a shining curtain, blood pooling around her knees. “The boat. Good idea. Make it happen. His mother won’t really want to talk to me, especially now if this is my fault. Besides, I’m staying with him.
Go
.”

Interesting that she also realized she was the target. Or maybe not
that
interesting, since a man was shot in her home only a few days ago.

Nick went. He tried to keep a low profile along the deck in case he was wrong about the retreating boat, racing, shirtless, finding his hostess after a few inquiries, letting her know it was her son that had been shot.

They were back at the port with impressive speed, and luckily, between Reign’s efforts and a doctor on board who was one of the guests, there was an ambulance waiting when they docked and Ariano seemed to be holding his own. Awake and lucid, he almost seemed more concerned with Reign’s distress than his injuries. Bloody and weak, he was strapped to a gurney, and Nick had to give credit to the response time of the nearest hospital.

Those swirling red lights did nothing to improve the situation, and Reign truly did look stricken.

“I’ll be fine,” Ariano promised, holding her hand, though it was a little hard to believe considering he was covered in blood and pale as a ghost. “Stop crying. You never cry.”

The victim’s mother rushed up in her expensive black cocktail dress, but the EMT ignored her and asked Reign, “Are you his wife? You’re awfully pale. If you’d care to ride along—”

Reign shook her head, standing up. “We are just very good friends.”

It was true, her pallor nearly matched his.

Ariano actually joked. “She won’t say yes.”

When the gurney was loaded into the ambulance and Reign turned to Nick, he said evenly before she could speak, “I know. We’re going to the hospital. I’ll drive you there and stay as long as you need me.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was hushed.

“Like I’d leave you alone, especially after this particular evening.” Nick took her arm, steering her back toward where he’d parked his car in a bevy of expensive vehicles on the pier. “Come on. He’s going to be in surgery for a while; you do know that, right? Did you eat anything at all?”

Reign shook her head again. How she managed to look beautiful with smudged mascara, he didn’t know, but somehow she pulled it off. “There’s no way I could eat now, I—”

“Yes, there is. It’s a mistake to forget that a human being must eat and sleep to stay strong. We’re going to stop somewhere and talk about this, and then we’ll go to the hospital and find out how he’s doing, okay? The bottom line here is there’s nothing you can do for him until he’s out of recovery. If you can argue that point, go ahead and give it a try.”

“There’s blood on the hem of my dress.”

“No one will notice. I’ll pick someplace dark.” He pressed a button on his keychain. “If this is going to be a long night, you’re not going through it on no fuel. Stop arguing with me.”

The first hint of humor surfaced. “Does it work for anyone? Arguing with you?”

“Nope.” He opened her door. “Or at least not in their favor. Get in.”

She slid into the car and settled into the seat. Typically Reign, she rallied enough to lift her head and say, “I’m letting you get away with ordering me around.”

“Yeah, let’s talk about your independence later.”

“Here we go, arguing again.”

He actually admired her firm determination to take care of herself, but the situation, especially after the events of this evening, had him worried. Nick hated being in the dark—the convoluted way he’d been approached to take the hit on her had given him pause at the time, and now he was more confused than ever over what exactly was happening. He got in the driver’s seat and started the car, trying to make sure he didn’t look uneasy, but he was.

He could have sworn they weren’t followed to the pier earlier.

It was instinct to pay attention to any car that seemed to be consistently going the same direction. None had, or else it had been done so skillfully he hadn’t caught it, and that was unlikely.

What did it mean?

Not sure.

Maybe her cell phone had a passenger. The evolution of tracking devices was ongoing, and he had contacts that kept up with the latest, but there was always something brewing in yet another devious brain.

He chose a pizza place that was appropriately casual a few blocks from the hospital and ushered her inside. Without being obvious, he tried to decipher her expression. Then he ordered a carafe of Chianti and a pepperoni, black olive, and green pepper pizza without asking what she preferred, because he was pretty sure she didn’t care. He waited until the waiter brought the glasses and their wine before saying anything to her.

She still looked stricken but not quite so shell-shocked. Nick poured her a glass, handed it over, and asked succinctly, “Can we go over this again? Who wants you dead?”

*   *   *

The man had a way with words.

A very straightforward way.

Reign was willing to go out on a limb and say a date with Nick Fattelli was pretty much an adventure every single time.

The restaurant was quiet and low-key, and it smelled of oregano and Parmesan. She was still shaken from the shooting and had to consciously take a deep breath before she picked up her wineglass. “I don’t know.”

At least the wine was smooth and mellow. Good choice. Her hand shook just a little, and some wine splashed out, but otherwise she thought she’d been pretty calm, considering.

She said carefully, “They shot Sal.”

The booth was actually very comfortable, even if it was hardly the most upscale place, and the jukebox in the corner was playing some sort of oldie. But she felt safe, and that was pretty important at the moment. Only because Nick was there, and maybe that was an illusion. This man sitting across the table, who was he? Complex, that was certain. Safe? Debatable.

“Oh yeah, they did.” Nick would never be a man to deal with less than the stark truth, she’d known that the moment she met him. “But, given what happened the night we met, do we both agree they were probably aiming for you? It takes some skill to shoot from a moving boat. They missed. He lost. They could have been gunning for you. I am not sure how often it happens in your life, but the sudden frequency of flying bullets your direction does send up flags.”

As if she didn’t already feel incredibly guilty. Sal had lost, but hopefully not his life. “You’ve shot at someone from a moving boat, Fattelli?”

“I’ve done a number of interesting things.” He sat back, wineglass in hand, his face shadowed. “It’s been established you know what I stand for.”

The closest he’d come to admitting it.

“Assassin?”

“Hey, let’s not get sophisticated. I’ve never said that.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon.”

In the end Nick was faintly amused. She could see it even in the inadequate light of the fake stained-glass fixtures. “Look, as awful as the evening turned out, I’m not actually involved in all of this. Don’t blame me.”

He had a point. Nick had been helpful, calm, and in command. Good man in a crisis—then again, a normal crisis didn’t involve the victims of gunshot wounds, but in his life, maybe it did.

“No.” She had to agree. Reign took a drink. The wine was truly Italian and delicious, but she was worried about Sal … and Nick was infuriatingly right: she couldn’t do anything at this point to help him.

Her grandmother had an old saying: “Misfortune comes in by the door left ajar.”

What door is open?
She looked at the man sitting across from her. “What do you think is happening?”

“Unfortunately, someone wants to kill you.”

“I can’t see how it would benefit anyone.” She was genuinely bewildered. Reign set her hands on the plastic placemat that had an exaggerated picture of a plate of spaghetti and took a calm minute to think. “Revenge on my father? Okay, I get it, but he’s in prison. Surely that’s revenge enough for anyone. Sal was right when he said we shouldn’t inherit the sins of our fathers.”

“Maybe so, but the trouble with this game is you don’t get to write the rules. You want it to be fair. It isn’t, sweetheart.”

When she pictured Salvatore crumpling to the deck, a bloody hand to his stomach, she didn’t really view this as a game. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” Nick leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He’d put his tailored jacket back on but still didn’t have a shirt, and with her bloodstained dress, they had to make some pretty interesting patrons, even if it was getting late and the place was dark and only one other table was occupied. “You’re trying to make sense of it. Quit that. So far this seems to be coming at you blind and we need to figure out why, and more importantly, who. I promise, you know who it is. No one goes to this much trouble after a casual target. Doesn’t happen.”

Okay, he had a point, but he also had a disturbing habit of being able to handle volatile situations with this sort of pragmatic approach. It was fine if you were on his side, but she’d hate to be on the other end.

Reign just didn’t have an answer. Considering the family feud, she might have said before this that Sal’s family would be the first candidate, but they would never have shot
him
.

“I don’t know.” It was an honest answer.

The arrival of their food stopped the discussion and she was surprisingly hungry, so maybe Nick was right. New York–style pizza, with a thin crust that could be folded and a glass of wine … it wasn’t like she wanted a lot, but she did manage to eat some, and he’d nailed it in that she felt better afterward. The wine didn’t hurt either.

Smart guy.

No,
wise
guy.

Her whole life she’d tried to avoid just this sort of man. Reign looked at him across the table. “You aren’t good for me.”

Nick looked unfazed. He took another piece of pizza. “You have it entirely wrong. The real question is, are we good
together
?”

“In bed we are.”

“I won’t argue that one. Not a bad place to start from my point of view.”

Reign sighed. “I’m too worried about Sal right now to get into a deep philosophical discussion about male/female relationships and how they work. We’ve recently met, and it seems like two of the evenings we’ve spent together have turned out to be pretty interesting, and not in a good way.”

“I know. Let me settle this up and we’ll go find out how he’s doing.” He stood, tall in the dim lighting, his face all angles and shadows. “You do realize they probably won’t tell you anything. They’ll talk to his family, and from what I now understand, his family is unlikely to pass the information on to you.”

He was right, damn him
. Reign murmured, “But maybe to you. How do you know Sal’s family well enough to get an invitation to a party on their yacht?”

He dropped enough bills on the table that the waitress was going to be a very happy person. “Through my father. Shall we go?”

Okay, he didn’t want to talk about his family. It was there in the clipped tone of his voice. Fine. She got it. There were bits of her past she didn’t want to discuss either, especially her ex-husband. Family was family, and keeping it private was important.

“Yes. Thanks.”

The least she could say.

“For dinner? My pleasure.”

“No, not for dinner.” She set her hand on his arm. “For giving a shit about how I feel about this situation. About another guy. You’re being very nice.”

His blue eyes were hard to read, but he looked at her directly, and she liked that. “I do give a shit, Ms. Reign Supreme. I’m not positive I want to, but I give a shit. But never, ever make the mistake of thinking I’m nice.”

She walked out into the parking lot and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t make that sort of mistake.”

Chapter

T
EN

Machines were beeping, but he expected that, even as he roused from a sleep that was hardly refreshing, the muscles in his stomach tightening as he instinctively tried to sit up.

Bad idea
.

Right. Shot twice. Sal winced as he relaxed back down and remembered the evening. Shot in front of Reign. Not ideal. There he’d been, trying to be smooth and persuasive, and then out of the blue, two bullets ruined the effect.

“Good morning.” The voice was low and modulated, an alto not a soprano, and the person speaking picked up a chart hanging from the foot of the bed and flipped through the pages. Light blue scrubs, brown hair in a ponytail, and honey-colored eyes. She glanced at him. “I’m Dr. Altea. How are you feeling?”

He suddenly wished, even in his incapacitated state, that he wasn’t wearing a hospital gown. So maybe he wasn’t quite dead yet. “Like someone shot me in the shoulder and the stomach.”

“Well then, from your chart, we are on the same page. What a coincidence. Any nausea?”

“Now or when it happened? I don’t like the sight of blood much, so when I think back on it, maybe a little.”

He adjusted the bed, looked at the attached sacks of fluid and the tubes running into his arm, and briefly closed his eyes. The thing about hospitals was the smell. He could do without it.

The doctor was much more matter-of-fact. She said, “Mr. Ariano, I’m serious. The shoulder injury was clean, but the wound to your abdomen nicked the colon. It was a surprisingly easy repair, but we need to watch you closely and I very much want you to keep me in the loop on how you are feeling. This is not the time to grit your teeth and not complain.” She flipped over a page and frowned. “You did have some alcohol in your system, but not much.”

“I was standing on the deck of my parents’ yacht during a cocktail party. I wasn’t driving the boat either. Give me a break. I’d had a drink or two. Not against the law.”

“Yes, I recognized the last name.” Dr. Altea hung up the chart. “But I was actually about to congratulate you on being so conservative. The surgery would have been a lot more dangerous if you were intoxicated.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever get shot again.”