Chapter 210: Checking In
- LUCIANO -
I just finished helping Dom and Sonny check into their room, which unfortunately is in the main part of the resort—the part that has rooms more like what I imagined we would be staying in. It’s enclosed within itself, not open to the outside, with hallways and stairwells and fire escapes and ice machines. A normal hotel with rooms that would be much easier to secure. Not cabins set out amongst the wilderness with glass walls.
Even after speaking to the resort manager about Dom and Sonny’s job as private security, the hotel room was still the best she could offer as far as proximity to Rory. Unless we move our rooms into the hotel or Dom and Sonny stay in her cabina, which sure as shit isn’t happening, this is the only option.
The guys will just have to spend most of their time hiding out in the dark jungle while Rory sleeps. They have certainly done much worse in our employ.
Now I’m visiting with Dr. Reddy and his girlfriend, Clara. Their check-in went much more quickly, and they’ve already returned to the lobby, happy to catch me before I get a chance to return to my cabin and catch up on phone calls and messages I missed today.
"This is my first time in Costa Rica," Reddy says, the gravel of his voice friendly but grating against my nerves. Because as grateful as I am that he’s here, all I can think about is getting back to the cabin.
It’s true that I have at least a dozen people to call, but I’m mostly concerned about being where Rory knows I should be. That particular concern is niggling persistently in my mind. I shouldn’t be here. I should be at the cabin. What if she needs me? It’s unlikely that she will, but what if she does?
But this is the job. Reddy may be repaying or forward paying a favor to the family, but the good-natured conversations and stroking of egos is required to keep things running smoothly.
"I hear it’s the green season," Reddy goes on. "We caught a bit of rain on the boat. But it wasn’t terrible. Just a mist, really."
Clara nods her head, quietly agreeing. They make a cute couple, in truth. She’s not what one might imagine when they think of a mistress. The smiling lines that feather her eyes are mirror images of Reddy’s, and there’s obviously true, quiet affection between them. It’s nothing flamboyant or showy. It’s real.
Clara’s arm is linked in his, and Reddy has made claims on her, no doubt, with the designer clothes and gold jewelry she wears. He may even keep her comfortable in an apartment that he pays for without his wife’s knowledge.
But it’s still always bothered me. There are codes that are upheld—that are vital to the way our organization runs and to what we stand for. Reddy isn’t a made man, of course. He’s only an associate. But mistresses are common in mafia families. Kept mistresses. It’s the rule rather than the exception.
Why then, when so much of what we do is about honor, do we—almost as a rule—dishonor the union between husband and wife? My father never did. If he did and I happened to catch any sign of what that did to my mother, I think I would kill him for it.
In my opinion, honoring that sacred union should be part of our code as well.
"So when would you like me to check on her?" Reddy asks, bringing me back to the present. "I brought the necessary equipment—a portable echocardiogram..."
"Oh. She is not aware that I’ve invited you," I interrupt. "I was hoping we could make it seem like more of a casual run-in."
Both he and Clara appear surprised by this revelation, but Reddy recovers quickly—chuckling in response. Maybe he thinks I’ve insisted he come here for no reason.
"I see. She doesn’t like to be fussed over," he says, assuming what makes sense.
"She doesn’t," I agree, not lending more information. It feels wrong to discuss her when she’s not present.
A flurry of movement catches my attention by the dining patio, and every thought flees my fucking mind when I register what’s happening. My Rory is in a dress, bleeding, with some dickhead waiter holding her by the arm and helping her toward the lobby.
Rory already sees me, and in the time it takes me to make it to her, I lock onto those beautiful eyes of hers and don’t let go. The only thing that keeps me from murdering the guy touching her is the fact that she looks so relieved. My next action after reaching her can’t be murdering the well-intended waiter. I do shove him off, though, right before pulling her into the privacy of the nearest corridor.
"Luci..." she says, lips quivering and tears sliding down her cheeks as soon as we’re tucked away from onlookers. She was holding the tears back, staying brave until she found me.
"What happened, Rory?"
My hands drop to her arms, tracing the incidental paths of red that make her look like a warrior, quickly finding the one hand that looks like it’s doing all the bleeding. The gash looks deep. It will need stitches, but it hangs at her side like she’s unconcerned. It looks like it was made by my knife.
"Rory, did you cut yourself?"
Her shoulders cave, and she folds into me—dropping against my chest with quiet sobs. It knocks a sigh out of me, just from the surprise and relief of having her body against mine. It’s like a piece of me has been missing and is finally back—a piece that I couldn’t force back into place.
"I’m here," I whisper, cradling her against me. "You’re safe. But we need to get you looked at, okay?"
She nods. "Okay."
Her voice sounds defeated and small, and it hurts so fucking much to hear her like that. That’s not her, and I hate it. I want to tear this place down to find out who is responsible. And why the hell wasn’t I there when it happened?
Reddy arrives at our side. "Is there anything I can do?"
"She’s going to need stitches," I tell him.
"I’ll go get my bag," he says with the calm, even temper of a man in the medical field who has often held that delicate thread of life in his own hands. The experience is comforting—even to me.
"Who is that?" Rory asks, voice shaking and making everything inside me shake in return.
"A doctor, Rory. Do you trust me?" As soon as the words leave, I’m not sure I should have asked them. Because I don’t know the answer.
"Yes, Luci," she sniffs, sounding more confident. "I do. I trust you."
