Conduct Unbecoming (18 page)

* * * *

“I’ll be back in two hours, two and a half, tops,” Harley said.  Watching her reflection in the mirror, she scooped her hair up and twisted it into a neat little roll, her fingers moving agilely as she pinned it into place.  She plucked a pair of earrings out of a tray of tangled silver on her dresser, threaded them through her ears.

Any other day, Harley would be going through this process fully
clothed, and not nearly as... theatrically.  Today it was for show, and she was determined to keep it interesting.  Knowing the hot, naked man sprawled across her bed was watching her every move was downright inspiring.

Wearing her sexiest bra and panties - clean, thank God, because she so seldom had a reason to wear them - Harley rocked up on her toes and leaned into the mirror, a move strategically executed to make her legs look longer, her butt curvier.  And yes, she knew exactly how the lace shifted - thank
you, thank you - exposing that little crescent-shaped sliver of cheek for anyone who happened to be watching to see. 

She slicked a layer of barely-there lipstick over her mouth.  Still on her toes, she turned her head one way, then the other, her lips pressed into kiss-mode to check for smudges. 
Like she didn’t usually apply it on the fly on the way out the door.

“
You’re killing me here,” he ground out through gritted teeth.  “You know that, don’t you?”  When she glanced at his reflection, something she’d avoided doing during her performance - more out of reticence, than coyness - she nearly swallowed her tongue.

Oh.  My. 
God.  There was a living, breathing, fully aroused version of a renaissance sculpture in her bed.  In.  Her.  Bed.

He was all dark, swarthy skin and hard muscle; hands down the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, let alone seen stretched out across her bed wearing nothing but a white sheet.  Honest to God, she had to reach out to steady herself against the dresser, her knees were that wobbly.

“What do you mean?” she asked breathlessly.

“
Why don’t you come back to bed and let me show you what I mean.”

She stepped into the dress she’d laid out at the end of the bed before she turned back to face him, worked the tiny, pearly buttons with slightly
shaky fingers.  Scooped up a pair of strappy sandals, sat down next to him on the bed to slide them on.

“
If you can be patient,” she whispered, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, “I’ll try to shift things around and get back a little earlier.  An hour, maybe an hour and a half.  Would that be better?”

“
Better would be right now.”  He tried to slide his hand up under her skirt but she scooted back out of reach.

“
Uh uh.”  She laughed, walking backwards out of the room.  “You can ridicule the Voice all you want, pal, but I need this job.”

“
Fine,” he called out, sitting at the edge of the bed as he listened to her make her way through the apartment.  “Go, already.  But if you don’t hurry up I may start without you.”  He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard her laugh as the door closed behind her.

“
Shit.”  He jumped out of bed when he heard his cell phone ring, grabbed his jeans from the floor and dug it out of his pocket.

“
Hello?” he said.  “Yeah, this is Dante Giancana.”  Jesus, his heart was pounding.

“
Wait.  You mean he’s awake?  Holy shit.  Well, that’s good news, right?”  He held the phone between his shoulder and his ear, pulled on his jeans, listened for a few moments.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and stuffed the phone back into his pocket, picked his shirt up off the floor and tugged it on.  He searched her dresser for a pen and paper - he didn’t even have her cell number to leave her a message - came up empty.  Nothing in the nightstand, either.

He grabbed his shoes and hurried to the living room, dropped them on the floor next to her desk.  Jerked one drawer open to shuffle through it - nothing - before he found a stub of a pencil and an envelope in the other drawer.  He was just about to scribble her a note when he bumped a thick manilla folder off the edge of the desk, spilling it’s content out onto the floor.

“
Shit.”  He dropped to his knees, fully intending to scoop everything back into the folder, frowned.  “What the...”  There were printouts of new articles and notes - some handwritten, some typed - for something she was writing.

And there were photos, black-and-white, grainy photos. 
Printed on regular paper, so the quality was worse than piss poor, but recognizable.  Jesus, they were photos of
him
, or at least the him he used to be.  In uniform, in civvies, some from the trial, one with him and Enzo - God only knew where that one came from - even a still from the infamous video of Fiona slapping him at Patrick’s funeral. 

She was
writing
about him.  He’d told her things he’d never told another human being.  About what happened that night and the way he’d felt about it, the way he
still
felt about it.  About the guilt.  And she just... she just
laid
there in bed next to him and pretended she didn’t already know.

He’d opened a vein and bled for her and all it was
was research.  He felt like he’d been suckerpunched.

He was still on the floor with the folder in his hand when she walked back into the apartment. 
“I forgot my... phone.”  She looked at him, frowned at the dark expression on his face.  “What is it?  What happened?”

“
What happened?” he parroted, lifting the folder in the air.  “I don’t know, Harley.  Why don’t you tell me what happened.”  Huh.  Somehow watching the color leach from her face wasn’t as satisfying as it ought to be.

“
I- I can explain that,” she stammered.

“
Don’t bother.”  He tossed the folder back onto the desk, stepped into his shoes.  “I get it.  You wanted a story, I was a story.”

“
That’s not-”

“
Gotta say,” he cut her off, too pissed to listen to reason, “you really went above and beyond on this one.  Seriously, I’ve known my share of sleazy reporters, but none of them were willing to fuck me for a bi-line.”  He stomped past her, stopped for a second in the doorway. 

She gasped, whispered,
“I didn’t-” in a shaky voice, but he bulldozed right over her.  “And the fuck?  I’ll give you an A for enthusiasm, but your technique could use some serious work.”  Then he slammed the door behind him.

C
hapter 23

Dante skidded to a stop at the nurse’s station, slapped his palms down on the counter.  It wasn’t easy, but he waited for the nurse to finish her call before he blurted out,
“My brother's awake.”

The nurse, not one he recognized, lifted her eyebrows. 
“O-kay.”

“
He's a patient.  Lorenzo Giancana.  They called, said he regained consciousness.”

“
You must be...” she looked down at a chart, back up again, “Dante Giancana.”

“
That's me.”

“
Room 712.”  The phone rang again and she reached out to pick it up.  “Knock before you go in.  Doctor's with him now.”

“
Thanks,” he called back over his shoulder, in a hurry now to actually lay eyes on his brother.  With his heart pounding he knocked, but didn't wait for an answer before he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“
Mr. Giancana.”  A vaguely familiar face - the Doctor he'd spoken to when Enzo had his heart attack, he realized - smiled at him, then back down at Enzo.  “It would appear that you were right.  Apparently your brother really
is
too damned stubborn to quit.”

Dante choked out a strangled laugh, dropping down into a chair before his knees could give out.  He locked his fingers behind his neck, leaned forward for a moment with his head between his legs to catch his breath.  Between the bullshit with Harley and worrying about
Enzo, it was like he’d been walking an emotional tightrope.

By the time he lifted his head again he felt more even-keeled, if not back to normal.  When he got a good look at
Enzo, though, he was glad he was sitting down.  The kid was white as a sheet, with huge dark circles under his eyes and a neatly stapled, ugly red incision that ran from his temple back into his hair.

But when
Enzo’s eyes fluttered open they were that same bright, clear blue and Dante found he could breathe again.  “Hey,” Enzo whispered through cracked, dry lips, his voice weak, thready.  He managed to lift his hand - more curled closed than fisted - an inch or two off the bed, and Dante lightly bumped his fist against it.

“
Hey.”  Dante grabbed a chair, pulled it up next to the bed.  “How you feeling?”

“
Thirsty.”  Enzo moved his mouth a little, grimaced.

Dante picked up the
styrofoam cup on the tray next to the bed, lifted his eyebrows at the doctor.  When she nodded, he angled the straw between Enzo’s cracked lips.  “Just a sip,” she cautioned.

Dante set the cup aside, leaned in close. 
“Do you remember what happened?”

Enzo
closed his eyes for a second.  “I remember... Roxi’s.”

“
That’s right.”  Dante nodded.  “You went to Roxi’s Friday night.  What else do you remember?”

“
I remember Sophie... brought me drink.”  Enzo licked his lips again.  “Sophie.”  The monitor indicated an acceleration of his heart beat.  Dante glanced at the doctor, but she didn’t seem worried, so he made a conscience decision not to panic.   

“
Sophie’s fine.  She’s worried sick about
you
, but she’s fine.  I’ll call, let her know you’re awake.”

Enzo
nodded, just the slightest tilt of his chin, and his eyes fluttered closed.  Dante waited a moment, then put a hand on Enzo’s forearm.  “What else, Enzo?  Do you remember leaving Roxi’s?”

Enzo
didn’t open his eyes, but he mumbled, “Roxi’s.  Just... remember Roxi’s.  And Sophie.”

“
It’s not unusual for a trauma victim like your brother to experience memory loss,” the doctor explained.  “There’s a good chance he may never recall the details of that night.”

“
Shit.”  Dante dragged a hand over his face, his jaw.

“
Some might consider that a blessing, Mr. Giancana.”  The doctor lifted her eyebrows.

“
Not if they’re trying to figure out what happened.”

“
Yes, I can certainly see where that might make things more difficult.”  She turned to leave, paused at the door to say, “Don’t stay too long, Mr. Giancana.  He still needs his rest.”

Dante said,
“Okay,” but he couldn’t quite bring himself to leave.  He was still sitting there five minutes later when the door slowly opened again and Leo poked his head in.

“
How’s he doing?”  Dante wouldn’t have believed it was possible, but Leo looked even worse today than yesterday.

Dante glanced back at
Enzo before he stepped out into the hall, shut the door behind him.  “Would you believe he doesn’t remember what happened?”

Leo blinked, stunned. 
Shook his head.  “What?”

“
He doesn’t remember anything after Roxi’s.  Doesn’t even remember leaving there.  Doctor says he may never remember.”

“
Holy shit.”  Leo was quiet for a moment.  “Maybe it doesn’t matter.”  When Dante opened his mouth to argue Leo lifted a hand.  “Hear me out.”  He glanced up and down the hall, lowered his voice.  “It’s not public knowledge yet, but Bobby Vega’s been ruled a suicide.  They just started auditing his reports, but they’re already finding discrepancies.  Unaccounted for evidence, the whole nine yards.  It’s probably been going on for a while.”

Dante leaned back against the wall, folded his arms over his chest. 
“I’m listening.”

“
So maybe Enzo caught on to what Bobby was doing.  The kid was gonna turn him in.”  Leo shook his head.  “I mean, you
know
that’s what he’d do.  But before he could, Bobby decided to get rid of him
and
deflect suspicion from himself at the same time.  It makes sense.”