His Mafia Prince
Chapter 247: Hold on, We’re Going Home

Chapter 247: Hold on, We’re Going Home

(SASHA)

The next morning, I rise early, sliding out of the bed as quietly as I can and limp down the hallway to get checked over by Darla. I take my medicine from her like a good little boy.

When I creep back into the bedroom, Tyler is still so deeply asleep that I don’t want to wake him. He’s had far less sleep than I’ve had recently, if an induced coma counts. I think it does. It will have to count, because I have a mission today. I can’t crawl back into bed, despite how tempting Tyler looks lying there.

Gloria is in the yard, reading, legs crossed underneath her in the large basket chair and her brow knit in concentration. She looks up in surprise when I come out into the enclosed space.

"Good morning, Sasha."

"Good morning. What is it that you’re—oh," I say, reading the cover. "The Last Prince. How are you finding it?"

She gives a rueful smirk. "Hard going, if I’m honest. You recommended Machiavelli to me some time ago, and I realized, when you were due to arrive, that I hadn’t read it." She smacks the back of one hand lightly with the other.

I sit on the outdoor sofa opposite her. The morning is clear, but the sun is losing its power as the year begins to die.

"It wasn’t meant as homework."

"No, but..." She grins, ducks her head. "I always remember what you said when you recommended it. ’Learn from the best.’ I figured that included you."

I tip my face back to the weak morning sunshine. "Learn from my mistakes if you can," I say. "And don’t get shot. Apart from that, I’m not sure I’m any kind of role model."

She laughs at that, and I laugh with her. "You know, Murphy said that if you had a garden and a library, you had everything you needed."

"I like that," she says, still smiling. "I think it’s true."

But my mood has sobered. "Gloria, I need information."

She regards me with those lovely, large, deep blue eyes. "Yes?"

"I’m wondering if this business has something to do with your Angelo."

"With Angelo?" She cocks her head, thinking, the same frown she wore when I caught her reading. But for her the suggestion has immediate possibilities.

"He certainly had her secrets. But what makes you think...?"

I repeat the story I heard second-hand from Tyler, and as I go through it, Gloria leans forward, puts her book aside, and focuses on what I’m saying. "Do you know something that I don’t know about Angelo’s past?" I ask. "Anything that would suggest—"

"I have only my memories. But..." She takes a breath. "Well, there were times when we, Marco and I, thought ... If he had some ties to the Irish, some of the things I have early memories of, the kind of memories I’d half convinced myself never happened, they would make more sense."

She chews her lip, brows pulling together. "I’ll put out some feelers. Over the years, my Angelo built up a great deal of influence in this city. He could have covered up anything he didn’t want widely known. But there are so many factions in this city that someone must know something."

***

The weeks drag, and I just about write-off Gloria’s so-called feelers.

Every day I feel a little stronger, but I find myself actually enjoying Tyler’s daily sponge-bath-and-suck so much that I even look forward to it. Better him washing me than Darla, after all. And the happy ending is always welcome.

At the end of the third week, Darla goes with me to an appointment at a private hospital in town, where they check my progress.

One morning, Tyler and I have just finished what has become our regular morning routine—breakfast in bed (because why waste my strength going downstairs when I could anoint his lovely pink nipples with butter along with my croissant), then a slow and careful sponging of my entire body, after which we let our imaginations run wild. Or as wild as they can in a shower while I’m sitting down.

He still won’t let me stand for longer than ten minutes at a time, on Darla’s orders.

Now Tyler is taking his own shower, while I’m half-dozing again in the bed. A soft knock at the door rouses me, and I command, "Come," loudly, assuming it must be either the nurse or Giulio. I regret the imperious tone when red hair appears through the cracked-open door, followed by Gloria’s anxious face. "

Hi," she says.

"Gloria! Come in, please." I push myself to sit up in the bed, and try not to be irritated when she hurries over to help me rearrange the pillows behind my back. I’m much better these days; I don’t even wince when I twist or turn.

She sits on the bed, perching on the side. I can see she has news, but is looking for a way to begin.

"Tyler is still showering," I warn her. "You might end up seeing a little more of him than you bargained for."

She nods, distracted enough by whatever she has to tell me that she doesn’t even smile. "I won’t be long. I just wanted to let you know, that information about Angelo being an Irish recruit during his first years in Chester—well, it’s true. I’ve been told it was a rebellion against his, your parents, a protest at them denying him what he felt like was his rightful right to be a Triple Triad Syndicate heir. But..." She shakes her head, lost for words. It’s not a surprise. And yet...it’s still shocking to hear.

"I don’t know how Tyler will take this." I give her a closer look. "And you, of course. I’m sorry if this has—"

"It is what it is," she says.

"So," she says firmly, "now we know that, at least." But we’re still none the wiser about what information the Irish are looking for.

"I’ll let Tyler know," I say. "Unless you’d prefer to speak to him about it yourself?"

In the bathroom, the shower stops running, and Gloria stands. "It probably makes me a coward," she says quietly, "but I’d prefer to leave it up to you."

No more can I. But I understand what she means: that the blow will land more softly coming from me than from her. And I happen to agree.

But Tyler, when I tell him, takes it squarely on the chin. He even wriggles out of my arms when I try to hug him, and paces the room instead.

He’s still naked from the shower, so I don’t object to the view. At last he stops, hands on his hips, and stares at me. "We need to know more."

I do my very best to keep my eyes above his waist. "I’m not sure how much more we can know, baby. And whatever it is that the Irish are looking for, it must be something they think only you know, or—"

I stop abruptly as a thought occurs to me that should have occurred to me quite some time ago. I can’t even blame the drugs; Darla has tailed them off considerably this week.

"Or what?" Tyler demands. "Something only I know, or—?"

"Or something only you have."

"But I don’t have..." He trails off, the same thought occurring to him. "Shit. Angelo’s diary." His hands fly up to his hair, clutching at it. "Shit," he says again, and then with mounting despair in his inflection, "Shit, shit, shit."

Angelo must have left it the occasional times when he lured him into the motel. Much as he hated him and wanted him dead, I’m grateful for whatever reason that made him think it was a good idea to keep the diary.

This time, Tyler lets me hug him. "It might be alright," I say softly.

"No," he tells me despondently. "Those stupid fucks." I can’t help but agree. Because if it is Angelo’s diary that they wanted, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance that they destroyed or misplaced it themselves when they ransacked the house. Still...we can’t be sure it’s the diary. And we can’t be certain it was destroyed.

I push Tyler back gently, holding his shoulders, and look down at him. "We need to check. We need to be sure. We can’t allow any possibility of it falling into their hands."

Determination replaces the discouragement in his eyes. "Damn straight." He bounces up to kiss me, a quick peck on the lips.

"Well? Say the word, husband."

I pull him closer for a real, lingering kiss, and then I tell him what he wants to hear. "We’ll return home tomorrow."

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