Page 63 of Luck of the Draw

“I’m fine.”

She pushed a chair next to the bed and patted the seat. “Sit, Brennan. I’ll be back to check on you later and bring you paperwork so you can go home when you’re ready.”

Brennan crossed the room and sat in the chair, and the floating sensation in his head didn’t escape him. “I’m going to hang out here for a while. I don’t have anywhere to be today.”

“That’s fine. If you need anything, you can use her call button.” The nurse patted his shoulder. “My name is Tara.”

“Thank you, Tara.”

She slipped out of the room and closed the door quietly behind her. Brennan rested his elbows on his knees as he pressed his fingers against his mouth and stared at the mess he’d made.

“Fuck.”

He scanned the various machines again. Skye couldn’t even breathe on her own now. He recalled his disgust upon discovery of the bruises that marred her body and face, and the feeling that he honestly couldn’t imagine anything worse…and look at her now. He hadn’t done this with his own hands, but it was undeniably his fault. He should’ve taken her home immediately and with utmost caution.

Brennan had no idea where to begin, but he knew that one of the very first items on his agenda would be to go see Vito and fucking deal with him. What all that entailed, he had no idea yet, but he wasn’t ruling anything out. And for only the second time since leaving the Marine Corps, he wished for his old rifle.

He huffed loudly, scrubbing his hands through his hair and then gingerly inspecting the stitches. This wasn’t the time to get all tied up in knots over Vito. This was the time to fucking grovel even though the woman who needed to hear his groveling had no way of hearing him.

Her still hand lay on the bed in front of him, and he clasped it, lacing his fingers between hers.

“I’m so sorry, Skye. I can’t even tell you how sorry I am that I let this happen to you. I fucked up. Majorly. But I swear to you, I’m going to make this right. I don’t even care what I have to do. I said I would help you, and then this happened because of me, so I owe you. Big. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.”

14

AVONDALE, LOUISIANA

Brennan’s gunmetal silver BMW M6 Gran Coupe was way too conspicuous for such a location, but his car was the last thing on his mind. He tugged the bill of a black Saints ball cap, adjusting it so it covered the stitches on the back of his head and obscured his eyes and the bruising on the side of his face.

Glancing around the parking lot, the presence of a couple of black Escalades practically screamed that Vito’s “family and friends” were inside the small Italian restaurant, and that meant Vito was in there, too. Partially because Vito was expecting Brennan, and partially because this was what they did on Saturday nights; gathering for an old-school, family-style dinner at the fifty-plus-year-old house that was a hole-in-the-wall known for the most authentic Italian cuisine on this side of the Mississippi.

Brennan stepped out of his car and adjusted his hat one last time before strolling to the entrance. He pulled the door open and was greeted with the jingling of bells affixed to the window, Dean Martin crooning over scratchy speakers about trailers for sale or rent, and the heady, mouth-watering scent of scratch-made pasta and marinara. A few sparse patrons occupied a couple of tables, and the restaurant was low-lit in deep, dark red, likely an attempt to create a romantic atmosphere, but as far as Brennan was concerned it came off sinister. Just like the people he’d come to see.

The young hostess offered a warm smile. “Good evening, sir,” she greeted him, her voice holding the slightest hint of nasal New Orleans Yat. “I’m afraid we’ll be closing soon. Did you have a to-go order to pick up?”

“Actually, I came by to see some friends.” He scanned the room with his gaze. “They’re probably in the back room. Do you mind if I go check?”

The hostess’s eyes offered the faintest recognition, but her face otherwise gave away nothing. She stepped aside and gestured into the restaurant. “Of course. Let me know if I can help you with anything else.”

“Thank you.”

Brennan strolled past tables and the bar, down a narrow hall, as he followed the sound of conversation too low to understand. A rickety, green door with the latch removed hung on its hinges from an ancient frame, and Brennan pressed it with his fingertip to peek in the room.

About a dozen men including Vito, Angelo, and others Brennan recognized sat at long tables, feasting on family-style platters and jugs of table wine, laughing and talking and clinking forks against plates. He drew in a deep breath before pushing open the door and stepping into the room.

He went unnoticed for all of ten seconds before a cough and a laugh rose from one end of the room.

“Brennan!” Vito said from a chair at the head of one table. His silver hair was slicked back, and his bulldog jowls jiggled as he grinned widely. Gold, brown-tinted aviators covered his eyes despite the low lighting of the room. A marinara-stained napkin was tucked into the collar of a designer suit and tie, and he lifted his hands, sending the gaudy chain bracelets on his wrists jingling. “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence. Come on over here, kid. We still got a load of ziti and cannelloni. Come, have a seat.”

Brennan offered a placid smile and approached the table, holding out his hand, and Vito shook it. “How are you doing, Mr. Moreci?”

“Doing well, doing well.” He slapped the back of a skinny man to his right. “Johnny, make some room for my friend here.”

Johnny stood without a word and picked up a platter of carbonara before moving to another table. Vito reached for an empty wine glass and filled it before gesturing at the chair, and Brennan sat.

“Good to see you, kid. How are ya?” Vito pointed at his face. “Hell of a shiner you got there. What the hell happened to ya?”

Brennan grasped the stem of the wine glass between his forefinger and thumb, turning it back and forth.

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