“I don’t go back on my word,” I snapped. “I’m Italian.”
He coughed out a laugh. “So am I, but don’t tell Tripp.”
I was shocked that he was Italian, but more so that he said not to tell Michael. “Why?”
“Long story,” he said. “You ready for the truth?”
“Please.”
He inhaled a deep breath, exhaled and began. “A well-known figure in this city approached Tripp a few days before the night you saw us. His son had been kidnapped and was bein’ held hostage. They demanded a ransom far beyond what the man could possibly pay, and he was assured if he didn’t pay by the deadline, they’d kill his son. I was at Tripp’s office the night he came in askin’ for help, and we agreed to get his son back.”
I waited for him to say he was joking, but it never came. I’m sure partially due to the lack of sleep I had been getting, and a little more because it was obvious he wasn’t kidding, I stared back at him in complete shock.
“We were runnin’ against the clock. That’s why he couldn’t take the time to explain. I guess I’ll tell you the rest of it, now that I started.”
His eyes fell to his lap and he raked his fingers through his closely-cropped hair. After a heavy sigh, he met my gaze.
“We got to the guy, and they had a bomb strapped to his neck. A bomb big enough to blow all of us to kingdom come. Now, there ain’t a whole bunch of fuckers that’d volunteer to rescue a kidnap victim. And, there’s a lot less that’d do it up against the crazy fuckers we was up against. But to find someone who’d take the risk and try and defuse the bomb? Yeah, that’s a tough one.”
I felt like I had swallowed a handful of sand. My throat was tight, my mouth was dry and my heart was racing. I remembered I had a glass of water, and took a drink. “What happened? The man’s son died, didn’t he?”
“Sure didn’t. Tripp made us all seek shelter, and he insisted he stay and help defuse the bomb. Took the kid home with him, got him cleaned up, gave him one of his suits and delivered him to his father.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped. I glanced down at my shaking hands. I had run through many scenarios of what might have been going on that night, and I never would have dreamed it was anything like what Cap had described.
“Now. The guns you got mad about? The machine guns, as you call ‘em? Those very guns are what saved all of us, that kid included, from bein’ killed on that night.”
It was almost too much to comprehend. I wondered who the boy was, and who the man was. A senator, judge or congressman, I supposed. I had so many questions. “Oh my God, this is so crazy,” I said excitedly. “I have a ton of questions.”
“If it’s about that night, the answer’s no. I’ve told you all I’m going to tell you about that night. Not one word of it was a lie, and I didn’t hold anything back. But, we’re done talkin’ about it. It’ll never be discussed again.”
“But...”
“No buts about it. I got one more thing to say, and I’m leavin’.”
He stood, turned around, and folded his arms in front of his massive chest. “Tripp’s parents died when he was a kid. Grew up without a family. But he didn’t give up. As an eighteen-year-old kid he went to war. Two countries, a million enemies, and a couple of gunshot wounds later, he returned. But it didn’t kill him. Ten fuckin’ years of hell. I’ve seen him in places no one in his right mind would go, and against enemies no man would ever want to fight. But he lived through it all. And then, along comes this little Italian gal.
“He loves ya, Terra. More than he probably loves himself. And you? You bein’ here? After all he’s lived through, you’re killin’ him. He’s dyin’ right now. I can see it. And seein’ it’s killin’ me.”
My eyes began to well with tears.
“Do you love him?” he asked.
“I...I do.”
“Go tell him,” he said.
And he walked away.
Loving Michael was easy. All I had to do was exist.
Being without him in my life, however, was impossible.
“Cap!” I shouted.
He was at the front door and just about to walk outside. He glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Can you help me carry my stuff back inside?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Michael
Cap cleared his throat as he walked into my office. “Get out the scotch,” he said.
I reached for the top three inches of the mound of papers piled on my desk and lifted it from the stack. “What’s going on?”