“She told me some things he probably doesn’t want me to know,” I admit quietly. “That must be why they attacked.”
Uncle Al doesn’t say anything for a long minute. He’s probably deciding whether to dump me in the river while we’re out.
“Did you tell her about this meeting?” he asks at last. “Or anyone else?”
“I told her to call her father.”
The Life is my life now. I don’t have friends here, or a girlfriend, or anyone I would tell besides Eliza. I probably would have given her more detail if it had been scheduled for a few days from now, but I only sent her a text after Al told me she should put in a good word for me.
“You weren’t even supposed to come along on this,” Al says. “They might not have known you were coming. Or they could have been planning it before we decided to involve you. They’re not going to pass up a chance to knock down one of the families if they can get me alone.”
“Maybe.” He’s definitely a more desirable target than me. As Eliza likes to remind me, I’m no one. But I did tell her we were meeting today. It was vague, but she could have found out from her father.
Fuck. A funny little knot forms in my belly. Does she hate me enough to have set this up herself? I thought we were past that, but maybe she was faking it. I’ve seen how good an actor she is. And she loves to talk about her obsession with freedom. What better way to attain it than to get rid of the one person she perceives as an obstacle?
“So, Eliza knew we were meeting,” I say. “She could have found out the time and place when she talked to her father. Some of the Pomponios obviously knew. On our side, there’s the two of us, your consigliere, and Little Al.”
My mind circles back to my “innocent” little wife, who I put on the Pomponio’s side without even thinking. Did she try to fucking kill me?
Rage swells inside my chest, closing off everything else, even the pain throbbing in my shoulder. If she did this…
This week, the house was a fucking disaster of dirty dishes and takeout boxes and wine bottles from her friends coming over and hanging out all day. When I told her to clean up after herself, she said she wasn’t a fucking maid. And when I told her to hire one, she looked at me with these big, dumb eyes and said, “I don’t know how to hire a maid.”
I let it go, even though I wanted to tell her to figure it out. After what she’s been through, she probably insists on having her own way in everything because in that one thing, she had no choice. Or maybe I’m a fucking gullible idiot.
I know she’s not dumb. She may not know how to hire a maid, but I’d bet she knows how to hire hitmen.
“Look, kid,” Al says as we approach my place. “I know you’re blaming yourself, but Anthony wouldn’t do something like this just because his daughter complained. He might come talk to you, and if you were hurting her, he’d hurt you. But he wouldn’t come after both of us like that—not for a personal matter. This has business written all over it.”
“I’ll call Eliza,” I say. After confirming that she’s home with her friends like usual and not off with the Pomponio’s waiting to hear if their assassination plot worked, I hang up and text her bodyguard, who says everything’s been quiet at home. Eliza hasn’t gone out since this morning when she visited the salon. That puts my mind at ease a bit, and I relay the news to Uncle Al.
“It don’t look good,” he says. “The Pomponios don’t show up, and we get ambushed? It’s got all the makings of a setup. I just don’t know yet, kid. Why come after us, knowing the war would be back on? And why leave Eliza with you?”
“To throw us off,” I say. “To make us think it wasn’t them.”
“I don’t see the benefit,” Al says, frowning at the road ahead.
“Who benefits from our families going back to war?” I ask, turning to him.
He nods slowly, his eyes narrowing as he thinks through the possibilities. “One of the other families. Luciani’s messy like this.”
I nod, hoping it’s that and not Anthony, even though I don’t believe it. Anthony set the meeting up, and then he tried to kill us. Is he so confident that I’d be dead after the attack that he didn’t bother getting his daughter out?
Of course he is. I’m the new kid, green as fuck, with no experience. What chance do I have of making it out alive when a half dozen seasoned killers ambush us?
Uncle Al pulls up to my building and scans the area before stopping. “Let me worry about this,” he says. “You take care of that shoulder and leg. Have your wife take a look at them. I know a man has his pride, but don’t be too proud to let her take care of you when you need it. It might help things between you.”
I don’t think looking weak in front of Eliza, being at her mercy, is going to make things better, but I nod and thank him before reaching for the door handle.
“Oh, and King?” Al says, putting a hand on my good shoulder.
I turn back.
“Thanks,” he said. “You saved my life back there. I won’t forget that.”
“I just did what anyone would do,” I say before climbing out of the car.
As much as I’d like to take the credit, I’m no hero. I acted on instinct alone. And in the end, when there was one guy left, I shot too soon. I was sloppy the whole time. But it’s nice of Al not to mention that, to focus on the one thing I did right, even if it’s not entirely true. I pushed him to the floor when the first shot came, but that doesn’t mean it would have killed him. Hell, if it was Eliza’s doing, the shooter wasn’t even aiming for him.