Chapter 26

CESARE

Hours after walking out on Rosalind, I'm cooped up in the back of a truck within a war zone lower down on Alderney Hill, reconsidering every life choice that's relegated me to being the family errand boy.

If the Capello family hadn't orchestrated Dad's heart attack and framed Roman, I would be still in medical school, slicing open cadavers.

If I hadn't let Mom talk me into becoming a surgeon, I would be out there with my brothers, fighting through a small army of soldiers for a chance to kill Capello's son.

If the Capello twins hadn't framed me for slaughtering my pet when we were kids, then Mom wouldn't have thought I was a burgeoning psychopath. She also wouldn't have fought so desperately for me to keep me away from the family business. When she told me I was different from my big brothers, that was an understatement.

My vendetta against the Capello family is just as burning as Benito's, yet Roman has demoted me to the triage truck to assist Dr. Brunelli with casualties.

I snap on a pair of gloves and turn to my patient. Joe sits shirtless on a folding chair, his arm dripping with blood. The balding bastard stares up at me like I'm his executioner.

Gunshots resound outside, mingled with the sound of explosions. Every few minutes, something knocks into the triage truck, making its walls vibrate. It's an insulated trailer, converted into an operating room and a space for first aid.

"Where's Dr. Brunelli?" Joe asks.

"Operating on a man with a chest wound," I say.

Joe shifts in his seat. "I'll wait for him."

"Scared of me?" I ask.

He gulps, his gaze darting everywhere except mine. "You're the..."

My jaw tightens, and I wait for him to say I'm the screwup, the addict, the psycho baby brother everyone's forced to tolerate. I stare him down, daring him to repeat any of the shit I've overheard.

"Well, you're the torturer," he mumbles.

"Who's your only chance of fixing you up. Unless you'd like to continue bleeding out? You ever had your blood pressure taken?"

His brow furrows. "Of course."

"That bullet is dangerously close to your brachial artery, the same vessel those cuffs use to measure your BP. If it bursts, you're dead."

Joe's eyes widen, and he glances down at his arm. "You sure?"

I step back. "Let's wait and see. I've seen men die from strangulation, water torture, being burned alive on a bonfire, but this will be the first time I watch someone bleed to death from being a scared little bitch."

He finally meets my gaze. "Alright."

I turn to a tray of surgical instruments, itching to pick up the scalpel and start cutting. Any other time, I would relish this chance to perform surgery. Today, it's at the bottom of a long list. I want to be the one who guts Samson Capello, and if I can't kill him, then I'd much rather be breaking Rosalind.

"You going to give me a painkiller, Cesare?" Joe's voice trembles.

"If you hadn't wasted the last ten minutes crying for Dr. Brunelli, you would have already been prepped and anesthetized," I say, barely able to conceal my annoyance. "Now, there's a line of men needing my attention, and we don't have that luxury."

Joe trembles, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. The pleasant scent of antiseptic is now overpowered by the stench of his anxiety.

I pick up the scrub brush, grab his arm, and clean the wound with a sterile solution. Joe winces, his body tensing, his lips parting with a groan. I'm not normally an asshole to my patients, but Joe was one of the bastards who talked shit about me when I was going through withdrawal.

"Flinch, and my scalpel will slip. If I nick that artery…"

"Oh, god," Joe moans.

"Correct. Right now, I am the only thing that stands between you leaving this truck alive and serving my father in heaven."

"Like the father, the son, and the holy ghost?" he asks, his voice wavering.

"Enzo Montesano, asshole."

I hold the scalpel against Joe's skin and make my first incision. The layers of flesh part beneath my blade, revealing red tissue. Blood bubbles up, filling my senses with its rich, coppery scent.

Joe's pained whimpers fade into the background of my exhilaration as I part more layers with calm precision and expose the lodged bullet.

I take the forceps, maneuver them into the wound, and grip the bullet. Joe's muscles tense as I extract the metal and deposit it on the sterile tray with a clink.

"There," I say. "That wasn't so bad."

He exhales, his body slumping with relief.

I pick up a needle and thread. "After I've closed the wound, you can go back to the battle."

Joe's breath quickens. "Can't I get a bandage instead of stitches?"

"Sure, if you want to risk infecting your open wound, sepsis, bleeding out, and dying," I reply. "But if you'd rather have a clean, neat scar as a souvenir of surviving the battle of Alderney Hill, you'll shut the fuck up and take my needle like a good boy."

Joe's eyes flash, his nostrils flaring, but he clamps his mouth shut and nods.

"Smart choice," I mutter.

I hold the wound together and pierce his flesh with the needle, leaving a trail of fine thread. Joe winces, but doesn't make a sound. He holds still, gripping the edge of the table as though it's the only thing keeping him on this side of the veil. Lucky for him, I take pride in my work.

After the final stitch, I secure the thread with a knot and step back to admire the perfectly closed wound. The edges of his skin align perfectly, promising a minimal scar.

Joe exhales, his body relaxing against the fold-up chair. "Thanks, Cesare."

Nodding, I apply a sterile bandage over the wound and slip off my gloves. "Remember this the next time you and your pals want to call me a liability or a weak link."

He pales, his features falling slack. "Uh... Yeah. Sorry about that. Nobody meant any harm. We all talk about each other to blow off steam. To cope with all the stress."

"Get the fuck out and call in the next patient." I flick my head toward the back door and dispose of the gloves.

With another mumbled apology, Joe snatches up his clothes and stumbles out, not even bothering to dress. As I clear up the sterile tray and discard the used supplies, a large hand clamps on my shoulder.

"Well done, son."

I turn around to meet Dr. Brunelli's smiling eyes. We used to call our family physician Dr. Mario because his mustache looked just like the video game character, only thicker and bushier. It's now streaked with gray, but his blue eyes still hold the same friendly twinkle.

"It was just a bullet wound," I mutter.

He chuckles, the sound rich and deep. "You still have a talent for surgery, but your bedside manner could use a little work."

I shift on my feet, my gaze dropping to the floor, already knowing what will come next.

"Isn't it time you returned to medical school?" he asks. "Twenty-four is still young?—"

"No."

"Last time we talked about this, you were waiting for Roman to be released from death row. What's changed?"

"I can't leave the family when Samson Capello is still out there, paying assassins to scout the grounds for an opening," I reply.

"It's only a matter of time before the final Capello dies. Then you'll need a purpose."

The message behind his words hits like a punch to the gut. I'm not a necessary member of the Montesano family. I don't fit in.

Roman is the leader, who's been running our operation from prison since Dad died. Benito is the diplomat who rubs shoulders with the dignitaries too afraid to be seen with Roman. I'm the black sheep they keep in the background.

Even Mom thought the same when she caught me with a sliced-open rabbit and assumed I was a psychopath. Nobody believed me when I told her I'd found my pet murdered, but she, Dad, and Dr. Brunelli decided between them that I should be a surgeon, so I wouldn't become a serial killer.

He sighs. "Cesare."

"This morning, Roman beat Dominic half to death because Samson Capello paid him a million dollars to kill his special guest," I say.

He nods. "I treated Emberly today. She's recovering nicely in the pool house."

"I can't leave my brothers to be outnumbered. We still don't know if Dominic had any accomplices."

Dr. Brunelli cups the side of my neck, his touch firm and warm. "Your brothers are strong, capable men who can handle themselves."

Before I can look too deeply into what he's implying, the doors burst open. The two of us part, just as Roman steps in, dragging a man in body armor.

It's cousin Leroi, looking feverish, pale, and a hair's breadth away from death.