It was spicy.
Yes, God hated me.
“I’ll reimburse you,” he said.
“Benny, this is not cool,” I snapped. “I’ve just been shot. I don’t need this.”
“You were shot a week and a half ago, babe. And if you felt shit, you wouldn’t be able to mouth off.”
I clamped my mouth shut.
Ben grinned.
My clit pulsed.
Yes. God so totally hated me. He was punishing me. Doing it on earth before He sent me to the fiery depths of hell.
Ben moved out of the cab and slammed my door.
It was at this point that I could make a break for it. Then again, I didn’t think the awkward, painful strolls I’d been taking around the hospital corridors had prepared me to make a desperate dash from lean, fit Benito Bianchi. Hell, if I was in perfect shape, I still couldn’t execute a desperate dash from Benny Bianchi.
So I didn’t make a desperate dash. I glared at him through the windshield as he rounded the hood of his Explorer, and I kept glaring at him as he pulled his long body into the driver’s seat. Committed to this act, I continued to do it as he switched on the ignition and guided the truck away from the curb.
It was then I noticed he didn’t put on his seatbelt.
“It’s law to wear your seatbelt in Illinois, Benny,” I shared snippily.
He didn’t glance at me, kept negotiating the rounding drive out of the hospital, but reached for his seatbelt and clicked it in place.
Well, hell. He took direction. Even snippy direction.
I didn’t need to know that either.
He pulled out onto the street.
“Can you explain why you’re kidnapping me?” I requested to know.
“Kidnapping you?” he asked the road.
“I am in your truck against my volition,” I pointed out.
“Right.” He grinned. I saw it and my mouth went dry. “Then I guess I’m kidnapping you,” he finished good-naturedly.
It was unfortunate that it was highly likely I’d rip my gunshot wound open if I attempted to scratch his eyes out. Furthermore, I didn’t want to survive genuinely getting kidnapped by a madman, running through a forest, ending up shot, only to get in a car accident mere minutes after being released from the hospital.
Therefore, I decided not to do that and instead kept questioning.
“Now that we have that down, can you explain why?”
“’Cause you’re not gonna convalesce under the watchful eye of a mob kingpin.”
“I was heading home, Ben,” I shared.
“And you don’t think Sal wouldn’t have his ass, Gina’s, and every Chicago mob wife and girlfriend up in your shit, catering to your every whim?” he returned. “You’re family and you took a bullet for family. He was your godfather. Now he’s your fairy godfather.”
Pure Benny.
“I wouldn’t let Sal hear you refer to him as my fairy anything,” I advised.
“I don’t give a fuck what Sal hears me say about him.”
It was not surprising that the Bianchis, who owned a family pizzeria and had nothing to do with the Cosa Nostra, weren’t all fired up when Vinnie Junior decided to cast his lot with his uncle Sal. They were less fired up about it when he got whacked during a war Sal found himself in.
There weren’t a lot of people who would disrespect a Mafia boss.
The Bianchis were the exception. And Benny, who loved his brother, loved his mother and father, sister, and other brother, hated to lose Vinnie Junior. He also hated to watch his family suffer that same loss. Therefore, he took that disrespect to extremes.
It scared the crap out of me.
If you knew Salvatore Giglia like I knew him, you would think he was the kindest-hearted man you’d ever met.
But he absolutely was not.
Therefore, my voice was lower when I noted, “You need to be careful about Sal, Ben.”
He glanced at me before looking back to the road while asking, “What? You think he’ll take another son from my father?”
At the reference to Vinnie Junior, I decided I was done talking.
“He would not do that shit,” Benny went on.
No. Sal wouldn’t. He respected Vinnie Senior. He might not eat any shit in his life at all. None.
But he’d eat Benny’s shit because of what happened to Vinnie Junior and because he respected Vinnie Junior’s father.
This was surprising. In Sal’s world, he figured he’d won respect from everyone—save cops, the FBI, and IRS agents—so he demanded it.
But he didn’t mingle at family reunion s with cops and FBI agents.
And he ate shit from the Bianchi family.
Particularly Benny.
“Anyway, babe, he’s not here,” Ben finished.
Luckily, this was true.
I decided to keep not talking.