Chapter Seven

They still held hands as they ran up the sidewalk, through the automatic sliding doors, into the blindingly lit ER reception. Poinsettias bloomed at the nurses’ station and a whole decorated tree glittered with colorful lights, yet no one in here looked like they were bursting with holiday spirit.

“Don Cassaro?”

Sal demanded, sweeping up to the reception desk like he owned the place. “We’ve just had a call. Where is he?”

Jack watched, dazed from the whole rollercoaster of the day and night, the strong drink, the heat and cold, bright and dark, while Sal rattled off names and proclaimed himself Cassaro’s son without the faintest hint of self-doubt. Lights blurred in and out of focus along with voices.

Who? That was the big question now. No, first, the big question was for Cassaro. Would he live? Would he be okay? An attack on the Dommarco consigliere changed things, one way or another. The next question, the burning question, the one every family and family member within this city and the whole region would want to know: Who?

Not another war. Who would be next? Guy Dommarco, Don’s boss? Or would it be Sal? Would the city burn again?

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, allowing Sal to drag him through the corridor, down a hall, up an elevator to the critical-care unit.

In the doorway of a private room, Jack stopped, letting Sal go in ahead of him.

Cassaro’s usually tanned complexion looked washed out, even against the white bed sheets, as if he’d lost a gallon of blood. Aside from that, it was hard to tell anything. Blanket covering him, head on the pillow, eyes closed. The room was dim in the middle of the night, but the IVs in his arm and beeping heart monitor were obvious enough. So was his wife, the only visitor, sitting in a chair beside him, gripping his hand on the blanket.

Sal’s gallop slowed to a careful walk as he stepped in.

He offered Mrs. Cassaro a greeting and Jack gave his own head a twitch, trying to focus.

“We came as quick as we could. How’s he doing?”

“Rausa?”

The man’s eyes snapped open, his voice unexpectedly strong. “Rausa, listen. I wanted you here to stop the rumors. Listen to me.”

“Rumors?”

Sal leaned over the bed. “You’ve been shot.”

“Think I don’t know that?”

He tried to sit up but both his wife and Sal pushed him back. He went on, tone belligerent and more animated than his appearance suggested. “By accident.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Rausa. The gun went off. Stupid, careless mistake. A rookie mistake. I’ve been handling guns since my old man first taught me how to read the calibers. But it happens. You think you know everything and that’s when there’s bound to be an accident.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, no real harm done. By the New Year I’ll be back on the dance floor.”

Sal glanced at Mrs. Cassaro and back down, for once at a loss. “Okay.”

“Say it with me, Rausa. It was an accident.”

“It was an accident.”

“That’s right.”

Cassaro subsided against his pillow, no longer having to be held there. “And who are you going to tell that?”

Sal hesitated. “Everyone.”

“Good man.”

Cassaro gave a nod. “Now get the fuck out of here and have a merry Christmas.”