The wind carries the scent of salt from the ocean as we shuffle Richie's body from Sammy's car to some wealthy-looking, Spanish-style home with a red-tiled roof and white stucco in the Marina district.

This area is like the Beverly Hills of San Francisco, with houses worth millions of dollars and either owned by families who have been here for ages or new people bathing in money. Even the pavement feels rich with pristine black asphalt and freshly coated yellow lines.

But none of that matters.

What matters is that we are walking up to someone's home instead of a hospital. We're a few feet into the driveway when a side door opens, and an older woman with salt and pepper hair waves us down.

"This way."

"You heard the doc," Sammy says, allowing Jackson and I to pass ahead of him.

"Set him down on the kitchen counter." She steps aside, and we enter the home through a mudroom.

Everything is dark as we maneuver through hallways where shadows dance across the walls from moonlight beaming through windows. We finally reach the living room with an open view of a grand kitchen that must have cost a fortune. Everything is a shade of white, with stainless steel appliances built for a chef. Oddly, my stomach gurgles, and I'm hit with the need to devour a steak.

"You sure you want us to put him on the counter?" I ask over my shoulder. "He's dirty and bleeding."

"Yes, on the island," she says, flicking on lights, and when we set him down, she pulls her black silk robe tighter, then leans in. "Sir, I am doctor Irene Banaag. Can you hear me?"

"Mmm..." Richie moans.

Furrowing her brows, Dr. Banaag straightens and pulls the glasses from atop her head down to the bridge of her nose. "Who is this young man?"

"Richie Reddy," I say.

"Hmm. Any relation to Rohan Reddy?"

I shrug. "No clue. Who is Rohan?"

But she ignores my question, and her mouth forms a straight line when she turns to Sammy. "You know who this young man is connected to, right?"

"No, but I have a feeling," he replies.

"This kid answers to the Abramovitz family," she says.

"Yeah, I was starting to wonder..." Sammy rubs the back of his neck, and my gaze jumps between them. "This isn't good."

"No, it's not, Samuel," she replies, but her attention averts across the living room and to the stairs, where a man with grey hair is descending while rubbing his eyes.

"Honey, what is all the commotion?" he says.

"Go back upstairs, Greg!" she shouts.

He pauses midway and takes in the scene. "Oh... I see you've got a house call."

"Yes, now please go back to sleep."

He sighs and tosses his hands in the air. "Alright, Irene, but this is the last time."

"Just go to bed, please!"

Shaking his head, he goes back up the stairs, and when he's out of sight, Dr. Banaag focuses back on us, her hands on her hips as she sighs heavily.

"Listen, I can clean Richie up, give him medical care, and keep him here until the fever and infection are under control, but the Abramovitz sisters need to know about him being here."

"No!" I say.

"Uh, yes." She nods.

"If Augusta finds out, I'm fucked."

"Young man..." Dr. Banaag pinches the bridge of her nose. "I don't work for the Sisters, but we occasionally cross paths, and I refuse to piss them off. My family did not come here from the Philippines so that I could implode the immaculate reputation I have built as an orthopedic surgeon. So, I will be notifying them about this."

"No, please." I wave my hands. "Augusta will kill my ass for fucking things up! This is way off plan, and Jocelyn made it clear that Augusta shouldn't know what I'm doing with Richie."

"No." Dr. Banaag raises her hand. "I don't want to hear another word about what you're involved in, but I can sympathize with how anxious you are, so I'll call Jocelyn instead of Augusta. In the meantime, I need to get busy with cleaning Richie's wounds."

Jackson steps forward and rolls up his sleeves. "I can help. I'm a trained paramedic."

"Fantastic. Let's wash our hands."

∆∆∆

Time passes, although I'm not sure how long Sammy and I sit on the back patio while Dr. Banaag and Jackson work on Richie. I'm not a cigarette smoker, yet when ol' Sammy Blue Eyes pulled out a pack and lit a cancer stick, I asked if I could bum one. So now I'm chiefing away and blowing smoke rings towards the flagstone as I lean forward in a rattan chair with elbows on my knees, flicking ash from the cigarette. The nicotine eases my anxiety and hunger, and it makes sense why Angie smokes these like a choo-choo train.

"You've got a lot of nervous energy, kid." Sammy blows out a stream of smoke from his nose. "Not at all what I imaged from what Angie has told me."

Snapping my gaze towards him, I say, "And what has she told you?"

"That you're confident but a hot-headed guy who gets shit done. Tonight, not so much. Tonight you're a wilting flower."

"Fuck you. You don't know me!" I stand and pace to the edge of the patio and stare out into the yard.

"Listen, I've tried telling Angie that what you two are doing is dangerous. Trust me. I know. But she says this is something she's gotta do, so I'll help when I can."

Turning around, I fold my arms. "And how do you know Angie so well that she would tell you what we're doing?"

"I do Uber part-time and picked her up one night. Her husband was being a real shmuck and shoved her in the car. I don't take kindly to men who put their hands on women, so during the drive, I made conversation with Angie. She's had it rough, and I have daughters her age, so I guess you can say I feel a bit protective, and we've been in touch ever since."

"You always make friends with random people in the street?"

Sammy shrugs. "What can I say? I'm a charming guy."

Yeah, I bet he is with his damn mafia history.

Turning, I continue staring at the yard and stew. I'm not looking forward to Jocelyn showing up here with Andre the Giant, aka Kay, and ripping me a new asshole. Admittedly, I did this to myself by being impulsive, and despite my pride, I should schedule an appointment with Gwen to apologize. Because the truth is, whether I like it or not, she is helping me work through my bullshit. Scrubbing my face with my hands, I release a breath and stare at the countless lemon trees bordering the wooden fence with a perfectly manicured, lush green lawn. The California drought hasn't affected this garden, and it must be nice being so rich that you don't give a damn about that sort of thing. This is what money buys.

Which makes me wonder...

"How do you know this doctor?" I ask Sammy.

"Years ago, she was my crew's go-to for, uh, medical support."

"Your crew, as in your mafia gang?"

Sammy blows out smoke and sighs, "Kid, the mafia doesn't exist."

"Sure it doesn't."

"You know, when Angie told me what yous guys are doing, I warned her not to get involved with the Abramovitz sisters, but she had already met Franky in the mental hospital."

"Wait! She met Franky in the mental hospital?"

"Yeah. I guess they hit it off." Sammy nods. "And through Franky, she met Reina, the arms dealer, and Reina works with the Sisters. So, Angie walked into some mud even though I warned her not to step in it, and here we are."

"Here we are." I toss my cigarette on the patio and stub it out with my boot, then narrow my eyes at him. "Did you know she was going to blackmail me into helping her?"

"No. I don't blackmail. It's not my style. Had I known, I would have advised her against it since there are better ways of persuasion."

"Like what?"

"You already know a thing or two about it." He nods in the direction of the kitchen. "Richie has seen better days."

"I did what I had to."

"Sure you did."

"I did." I point towards the kitchen. "That asshole is a wife beater, and threatened to kill me, so I one-upped his ass. Check fucking mate."

"I'm not judging." He holds up his hands. "I've done far worse in my day."

"Right. In your mafia, that doesn't exist."

"Right." Sammy nods and then glances over his shoulder. "Looks like they're here."

"Yes, they are." I gaze at the sliding glass door as Jocelyn passes by with Kay trailing behind her. "We should go inside."

"I'll follow you."

Sammy gets to his feet, stubs out his cigarette, then waits for me to lead the way. It's past four in the morning, yet Jocelyn looks like she's about to go out to dinner with her blonde hair freshly blown out, a black leather jacket, and dark skinny jeans paired with red-bottomed stilettos. Her hips sway as she waltzes into the kitchen to assess the scene, and when Sammy and I enter through the sliding glass door, her attention swivels our way, but her eyes land on the mafioso standing next to me.

"Do I know you?" she asks.

"No, but I knew your old man back in his better days. He's a real shmuck."

"He's a quadriplegic now," Jocelyn utters. "So, who are you?"

"My friends call me Sammy Blue Eyes."

Kay's jaw tenses and his hands clasp around Jocelyn's shoulders like a protective reflex, but Jocelyn's brow arches in amusement. "An original gangster. Much respect. My father has never liked you but says you got fucked on the Rico charge."

"Yeah, well, I'm not a rat, so I did the time, and now I'm out."

"I respect that." Jocelyn nods and then turns back to Dr. Banaag, who removes her surgical gloves. "Will Richie survive, right?"

"Of course. I'll prescribe him antibiotics to keep the infection and fever down. Now..." Dr. Banaag holds out her palms. "Who is footing the bill?"

"I am," Jocelyn says and begins digging into her purse while Kay stands behind her like a guard dog. "And I'll be taking Richie off your hands."

My head recoils with a shake. "I'm sorry. What?"

"I'm taking him."

Dr. Banaag waves her hands. "Richie isn't going anywhere. I still need to monitor him."

"Not your problem anymore," Jocelyn says. "We're taking him to one of our trusted doctors."

"I see..."

"Kay, grab him and take him to the car while I pay Dr. Banaag for her troubles."

"You got it," Kay says and slaps Richie over his shoulder like a damp towel, his limbs dangling as he moans.

The doctor's brows furrow, but she holds out her palm anyway, and Jocelyn begins laying down money. However, I lose track of how much as the stack of one hundred dollar bills grows taller. By the time she's done, Dr. Banaag can't close her fist around it. Instead, she shoves the wad inside the pocket of her robe.

"I guess this means our business is done here," she says and leaves the kitchen.

"Yes." Jocelyn's gaze slides to me. "Was it your idea to bring Richie here?"

But before I get a chance to answer, Sammy speaks for me. "It was mine."

"Yours?" Jocelyn arches a brow. "And how do you fellas know each other?"

This time, I speak up and wink. "I can't reveal all my secrets, Jocelyn."

"I see." She narrows her eyes at me. "Well, one way or another, I'll find out how."

"Not likely." Sammy steps forward, his posture straight as a sword as he clasps his hands in front of him and raises his chin. "Your world and mine don't mix. That's how it's always been. Let's not break tradition. All you have to do is ask your father about the consequences when that happens."

"Right." Jocelyn's mouth forms a flat line, and although she isn't snarling, it's very much there as steam practically rolls out of her ears. She pivots her gaze to me, then adds, "Kay will be in touch with you later. You've created a mess by playing your little games with Richie, and now we need to clean it up without Augusta finding out. You're lucky no one cares enough about him to file a missing person's report. Everyone is too greedy trying to take his spot as king."

With that, she gives us one last once over, her eyes lingering on Sammy a few ticks longer, then walks away with hips swaying in her tight jeans.

"You can't trust her," Sammy says as soon as she's gone. "You can't trust anyone in that family."

Turning towards him, I rub my chin. "You mentioned knowing her father. What's the story there?"

"Well, once upon a time, it was my crew running the Bay Area, but then we got busted on a Rico charge, and we all went away to prison, giving the Abramovitz space to rise in power again."

Interesting. This means there's a gap between what Franky told me and what Jackson could Google, which makes me wonder why.

"Wait. Do you think they set you guys up?" I ask.

"I don't think, kid. I know." Sammy adjusts his jacket collar and adds, "It's not a coincidence that Sal Abramovitz was severely injured in a car accident around the time I got out of prison."

"Are you saying Augusta and Jocelyn's father is paralyzed because of you?"

"I'm not saying anything. I'm just noting the coincidence." He shrugs and sways his attention toward Dr. Banaag, who has returned.

"Alright, gentlemen," she says. "Now that business has concluded, I need sleep."

"Right. We'll get out of your hair." Sammy nods. "Besides, the sun is starting to rise, and I think these boys owe me breakfast."

Right. Breakfast. I almost forgot I was starving.