I release him only long enough to shuck off my underwear before taking his hand. And any fear I might have felt is wiped away as he keeps his eyes on my face, even as I lead him toward the bathroom. Gio leans against the doorway as I step into the shower, a watchful presence as the piping hot water cascades down my back.
Dark swirls of blood and soot wash away from me, swirling down the drain as I grab the shower gel without looking and wash.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
“Cat.”
I scrub at the crook of my elbows as if I might be able to wash away the small needle marks that still dot my skin like purple freckles – that might always remain, if they haven’t disappeared already. Yet another reminder.
My body is riddled with them.
Large hands close over mine, and I flinch away before I can stop it, my back hitting the white tiles.
Gio backs away, his hands raised even as he closes his eyes, his apology hoarse. “I’m sorry. God, Cat—,”
I reach out for him. “Wash my hair. Please.”
And I force myself to turn, to close my eyes, not to flinch as he moves up behind me.
Not the same.
This is not the same.
“I’m fine,” I say abruptly when I feel him hesitate. “Please.”
I cannot let myself fall apart.
Gio is careful not to touch my skin, his hands gentle as he massages in shampoo and uses the shower head to rinse it. Neither of us say anything as he shampoos it a second time. Then as he works in the conditioner, slowly combing through the tangled strands with his fingers.
It takes far, far longer than it needs to.
And neither of us mention my shuddering breaths. Or the tears that mix with the water that Gio brushes away with tender fingers.
He doesn’t turn off the water until the shuddering stops. I lean against the wall, spent, as he collects a towel and wraps it around me. As he carefully dries my hair. We don’t talk until I walk out of the bedroom and climb into the bed still wearing my towel, curling up. “Stay.”
He sits facing the door, his back against the metal frame, and I use his legs as a pillow. Gio trails his fingers through my damp strands, teasing them out as my eyes start to close.
And finally, I sleep.
9 – Stefano
Iglance around the room again, noting the glittering blue of the Med in the distance from the shuttered window.
“Look, mamma.” I keep my voice quiet. “You always loved the sea.”
My mother doesn’t respond. She stays where she is, curled up in the bed, and I wait for a few minutes before taking a light blue sheet from the end of the bed and draping it over her. “Some rest, then. It was a long trip. I’ll bring some lunch up.”
Iliana Asante only blinks, before her eyes close.
I walk out, my eyes scanning the corridor. Wondering which door belongs to Cat.
She has the others now.
She may not welcome me – not in the same way she did when we were forced together by circumstances. Perhaps Domenico Rossi was right, to throw that accusation at me.
