Page 29 of Rocco
Not the homecoming he’d expected or wanted.
Perched on a secluded slope of the Cabrito Mountains, Ike had been confined to a long-forgotten diminutive luxury hideaway built by his mother as an escape from King Estate. The house was filled with custom-made furniture, high-end finishes, state-of-the-art amenities, and artwork that complemented the breathtaking vistas of sea and sky from every room.
A gilded prison where he recovered from his injuries, hiding away from his family and the world. No part of him was ready to reveal to his sisters Serena and Gabrielle that he was back. In reality, he wasn’t. He had no plans of rejoining the King Family.
Not yet.
There was something he had to do first.
For now, he was trusting his friends to keep his secret and keep him safe. They were all more than capable, having partially resurrected the security team he’d dreamed of heading up years ago.
But the days since he’d been brought out of the medically induced coma had been the worst form of torture. Ike rose and instantly regretted it. Sharp stabbing pain sliced through his chest. He inhaled, which only made matters worse.
Dr. Rocco Forrester looked up from the medical chart. “Didn’t you say you wanted to be more independent? Move around on your own.” Rocco tossed the chart back on the bedside table.
“I had something more nimble in mind.” Every day he spent in bed was a day he wasn’t getting answers to the one question dominating his thoughts since he’d returned home—why had the Brazhensky goons said his parents’ plane went down in Lesotho?
“Too soon for crutches,” Rocco said as if it was a foolish idea.
The guy didn’t have a bedside manner. Ike supposed that tending to hitmen, drug dealers, and mules day in and day out had made that particular skill set fade away. Not that Ike needed to be coddled. He needed the good doctor to give him what he wanted and keep his medical warnings to himself.
“If you think this is the first time I’ve broken a leg or cracked a few ribs, you’d be wrong,” Ike lied. As a PISCO, he’d been the one breaking legs and cracking ribs. He’d only been shot once—a flesh wound that hadn’t needed treatment.
Rocco shrugged. “If you want to fuck up your recovery and walk with a limp for the rest of your life, then I’ll have crutches here by tomorrow. Just say the word.”
Ike bristled at the doctor’s response.
Despite himself, he liked the guy. Which wasn’t a surprise. Friends of his friends tended to be easy for him to get along with,and Rocco was one of Everett’s close friends from the DEA. From what Ike remembered, like Everett, Rocco had been burned on an undercover op and left the agency. Everett returned to St. Felipe to be a private investigator, but Rocco took a different route.
Ike remained quiet, resigning himself to take doctor’s orders like a good patient. It was one thing his father had always believed in. Trust those who clearly know better than you.
“Good choice,” Rocco said after a moment. “Are you going to give it a try?” He flicked his head toward the wheelchair.
Ike leaned back on the bed. “No.”
The nurse pushed it out of the room and closed the door behind her.
“I figured you wouldn’t, but I had to give you the option,” Rocco said, then sat on the edge of the hospital bed. “You’re recovering much faster than I expected. The next month and a half will be tough because you’ll feel ready to move on. Start intense physical therapy. Get back on your feet, literally. Don’t.”
“I’m not too good at following the rules,” Ike muttered.
“Neither am I. But sometimes we gotta do what we gotta do,” Rocco said, slouching as a yawn erupted from his mouth.
“Like leaving the DEA to join a drug cartel?” Ike asked. He wasn’t curious. He needed to get a message to the Brazhenskys. Find a subtle way to let them know he was still alive. Despite his debt being paid off, Ike knew Alexei wouldn’t be able to resist coming after him. And when he did, it would give Ike the chance to discover what they knew about his parents’ plane disappearance.
Rocco chuckled. “I don’t believe for one second you’re interested in my turn to the dark side. What do you want?”
Ike liked Rocco more and more. This was a guy he could get used to having around. He’d be an asset to Stingray Security.
“Does El Sombro have dealings with any Russian mafias?”
“No, he doesn’t trust them. He transports only for Latino cartelsand lets them deal with the Russians,” Rocco said, then scrutinized him. “Who are you trying to get in touch with?”
Ike weighed his options. The doctor had never given him a reason to not trust him, yet weekly medical check-ins weren’t enough for them to get to know each other. Maybe there was another way to get what he wanted from the Brazhenskys. A much easier and more pleasurable way.
“Yana …” The name flowed effortlessly from his lips.
But it wasn’t followed by the usual boost to his libido.
