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“WERE YOU SHOT?” CARLO asked Gia as he yanked off his black ski mask and sped away into the night. “Are you all right? I heard shots go off, I heard you scream, and I also heard the pain in your voice.”
“I got nicked in the arm,” she said as she removed her own mask and then held her left hand over her right bicep to apply pressure to the wound. “But it’s not serious. And don’t look at me like that, Carlo—I’ve been shot before, as have you. It’s just a nick, nothing more. All I need is some peroxide and a bandage, and I’m good. He barely grazed me—whoever the hell he was.”
“And who was he? Where did he come from?”
“Does it really matter? What’s done is done.”
“We got Diana Crane and Mike Fine,” he said. “I saw them fall. But what the hell, Gia?” he said as he swung a left onto Fifth Avenue. “We had Alex and Jennifer Wenn in our sights, but then suddenly they dipped out of sight. Unless I’m wrong, I think they made it.”
“So what if they survived?” she said.
“Are you serious?”
“Look, I get it. If they made it, it’s disappointing. But we did get Crane and Fine, so at least we have something that will satisfy Rowe. The main takeaway here is that with so many dead and wounded, there is no way that the Wenns will believe that they were our targets. And because of that, their guards will remain down, which we’ll need going forward. We did the best we could tonight. It doesn’t always go as planned, Carlo.”
“I understand that.”
“Let’s go home,” she said. “You need to patch me up. I also want to watch CNN and see what they’re reporting. But before we do that, we need to ditch this car. People saw us drive away. There are security cameras on that street. Somebody might have gotten a read on our license plate.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Find a parking space when you’re several blocks away from our apartment. We’ll leave it there.”
“What about the guns?” he said. “We’ve got two AK-47s in the back seat. What are we to do with them?”
“We leave them behind,” she said. “They’re free of our prints. We’ve only ever handled them while wearing gloves.”
“I’m concerned about walking home—they’ll be canvasing the city.”
“Not now they won’t—too soon. But in an hour or so, they will be. They still have to organize, Carlo. And because of that, we have time. Just find us a parking space, and let’s get the hell home.”
Exhausted, she leaned her head against the window and watched the city speed by. Her arm hurt, but she knew it wasn’t much to worry about. Whoever had shot her had barely touched her. In a couple of days, she’d be fine—and ready to end the rest of this.
“There’s a parking space just ahead of us,” Carlo said.
“Where are we?”
“West Fifty-Seventh Street and Tenth.”
“That’s seven blocks away from us. Take it.”
He took it.
“There are two towels on the seat behind you. Grab them. Give one to me.”
He did.
She assessed the sidewalks, which at this time of night and in this neighborhood were not surprisingly empty. Still, she wanted confirmation. “Do you see anyone around us?”
“I don’t.”
“We’ve always worn gloves while in this car, but let’s still wipe it clean, put the guns in the trunk, and get the hell home. Because I don’t know about you, brother—but after what we just did? That shit has already become international news, everyone is talking about it, and I want to hear what’s being said.”
* * *
WHEN THEY RETURNED to their apartment on West 50th Street, Gia wrapped her wounded right arm around Carlo’s waist, and leaned in close to him as if they were a couple just back from a night out on the town. As they entered the building, she smiled and nodded at the doorman in an effort to hide her pain from him.
Casually, they crossed the lobby, and Carlo used a metallic key to enter the elevator that was exclusive to their floor. They stepped inside and rose to the penthouse suite, which was on the fortieth floor.
The doors opened directly into the apartment. When Gia stepped out, she looked at the lavish space that stretched before her and once again, she had to give it to Rowe—he hadn’t spared a dime when it came to renting this place.
The suite overlooked the Hudson River and had private access to the roof garden and its fabulous views of the city, which were particularly spectacular at night.
The apartment had three bedrooms, a media room they used to converse with Rowe via computer when necessary, a gourmet kitchen that Gia adored because she loved to cook the Italian recipes that had been perfected by her mother and grandmother—and that her forever-hungry brother loved to eat as much as she did.
“We need to tend to your arm,” Carlo said. “As in now. You’re bleeding.”
“Turn on the television first,” she said.
“I’ll turn on the television when you get your ass into the bathroom, Gia.”
Her brother always had been protective of her. When he was overly protective, it could get on her nerves. But since she had been shot tonight, she gave him a break and a kiss on the cheek, and then pointed at the television in the living room.
“Put it on CNN and turn the volume way up.”
“Fine. Now, go to the bathroom and remove your shirt so I can clean you up. And by the way,” he said. “It better be just a nick. You better not have lied to me.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I haven’t lied to you. Turn on the TV, and then I’ll let you play nurse.”
* * *
FROM THE FIRST-FLOOR bath, Gia and Carlo listened to CNN as he washed her arm with warm soapy water while she gritted her teeth against the pain. She was sitting on the granite countertop wearing pants and a bra.
“You should have stitches,” Carlo said as he inspected her arm. “But since that’s out of the question, I’ll have to patch you up the best I can.”
“You’ve always been a good nurse, Carlo.”
“Hilarious, Gia.”
She turned her head toward the living room. “Did you hear that?” she said. “They’re calling it a potential terrorist attack.”
“I heard it,” he said as he reached for the bottle of peroxide, took her gently by the arm, and held it over the sink. “This is going to sting.”
“An infection will sting a hell of a lot worse.”
He poured the peroxide over the wound. She winced as it sank into her flesh and started to bubble and froth, and then she waited impatiently as he patted her arm dry with a paper towel and then slapped a square bandage on it. Once he was done, she slid off the vanity and hurried into the living room to see what she’d been missing. Carlo joined her on the sofa that sat across from the large television.
On the screen was nothing but chaos.
The street outside Maxine Witherhouse’s mansion was filled with cops, paramedics, people lying on the sidewalk with blankets covering their bodies, and several dozen people wandering around in shock. Gia thought that they looked ridiculous in their blood-splattered eveningwear. Ambulances and police cars cast whirling flares of lights against the buildings on either side of them, as well as against the faces of the stricken.
A blonde reporter was detailing what she’d learned at that point from multiple eye-witnesses. According to her, two individuals had stepped out of what appeared to be a beige sedan and opened fire on some of the most prominent people in Manhattan, all of whom had been enjoying a party thrown by the well-known socialites Maxine and Bill Witherhouse. It had happened so quickly, the witnesses could only recall that the guns were large and that the terrorists were wearing black ski masks.
“At this point, twenty-two people are confirmed dead and thirteen are confirmed wounded,” the reporter said. “While CNN has learned some of the names of those who died here tonight, we will withhold all names until their families have been notified.”
“Respect,” Gia said with a sigh. “It’s so overrated. Look, it’s going to be forever before they release those names, so why don’t we go to bed, sleep off what’s been one a hell of a day, and deal with the rest of this in the morning?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“At the very least, the Times should have something more in depth when we wake up, as will CNN and everyone else. Either way, I’m exhausted.” She got up from the couch and kissed her brother on the forehead. “Good night.”
He turned off the television and also stood up. “Good night, Gia.”
“Thank you for taking care of me earlier.”
“You’re welcome.”
They started up the stairs to their separate bedrooms. “Look at what we achieved tonight. How many could have gotten away with it?”
“Few,” Carlo said.
And Gia, filled with pride, thought of her Uncle Niccolo—who once had taught her everything he knew—and agreed.
