I don’t want him looking at my hands and seeing blood. I want him looking at my hands and feeling pleasure. Remembering the wonderful things they can do to him. How they can make him feel. I brush the messy hair back from his forehead—that hair so golden, shining—he reminds me of a young Caesar Augustus, beautiful but weary.
“Killing a man, by word or deed, is not something I do lightly. Ever. And I don’t want you thinking that I go around killing indiscriminately.”
After a moment, he shakes his head. “I know you have your reasons. But I hadminein wanting that asshole dead, Luca. It was supposed to be a mercy.”
“Don’t you get it, angel? Murder is a mortal sin. I don’t want you carrying that stain around on your soul.”
He pulls away from me, irritated. “Sin, souls—you know I don’t believe in all that bullshit.”
“Then believethis,” I say, grabbing his hand to pull him back to me. “It’s a capital crime, and Nevada has the death penalty.”
At least that gives him pause, although he’s still scowling. “What you said before—it’s not true. You’renotthe boss in this relationship.”
I shake my head, surprising him. “No, baby bird. I’m not, and that’s not what I meant. You and me? We face things together, equal partners. But when it comes to business, my word is law. Ithasto be. My power in the Family cannot be seen as anything but absolute. If our enemies sense any weakness in my leadership—”
“Fuck our enemies. And fuck Maggie. And fuck that guy downstairs for getting into my head like this.” He pulls away to wander the room, running his hands through his hair again. “Okay. You’re right about Tara. I don’treallythink she has anything to do with this. But I want Maggie dead. You hear me, Luca? I’ll do it my damn self if you won’t.”
I can’t keep watching Finch pace the room, so I pull off my jacket and sling it over a chair, then start to unbutton my shirt. “If you remember, Iwasgoing to kill your sister Maggie.”
“And I should’ve just let you,” he says bitterly. Then he finally seems to notice that I’m half-dressed. “Why are you—”
“Because I smell like a torture chamber. And so do you. So come and have a shower with me and let me take care of you for a while. Okay?”
For a moment I think he’s going to say no, but then he gives himself a surreptitious sniff and makes a face.
“Come on, angel,” I say gently, coming close. “Let me help you get clean.”
* * *
Finch insistson checking my wound before we shower. It’s healing up fine, and he puts another waterproof bandage over it for me, his fingers gentle. The bathroom is a massive glass and chrome temple to luxury, with a huge double-headed shower and blue downlights that desaturate colors. Under them, Finch’s healthy golden skin seems to take on a pallor, and I wash him down gently all over as though he’s ill. Sometimes he hates it when I treat him like this, like he’s fragile and precious.
Sometimes, like now, he simply accepts it.
Afterwards, we both pop some painkillers. I tuck Finch into bed like a child, and snuggle up close. It’s only just past lunchtime, but he’s exhausted.
“I feel like it’ll never stop,” he says quietly. “They’ll keep coming for us, trying to tear us apart.”
“They’ll never succeed,” I say. “As long as I have you, I have everything I need.”
He sighs. “That’s not true, though, is it? The Beatles might have sung about love being all you need, but they weren’t exactly short of a quid or two.” He puts on a purposely-bad Liverpudlian accent to say the last part. At least, I hope it’s bad on purpose.
“Neither are we,” I point out.
“But it’s all sotenuous, and I just…” he pulls his hands out from under the bedspread and puts them over his face. “Maybe I just need to nap,” he says, muffled.
Once I’m sure he’s asleep I get up, dress, and think things through. Maybe coming here to Las Vegas was a mistake. All it’s done is moved us further away from people I trust, further away from my own resources.
I knew that sooner or later our presence in Vegas would get out. The reality is, there are myriad people who want us dead, and whoever sent this assassin was just one among the many. I check my alerts, but Fuscone’s disappearance isn’t even newsworthy anymore. Still, the Clemenzas, the Commission, the Feds—they mustallhave figured out he’s gone by now.
And who was involved, too.
A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts. It’s Sonny Vegas, wide grin in place, but something behind the eyes that I can’t place. I invite him in and he comes, although he claims he can’t stay long. He won’t sit when I ask him to.
“Listen, I just wanted to come and tell you, Boss to Boss, my men fucked up with that gondolier.”
“Fucked up,” I repeat neutrally.
“Yeah, they overdid it after you left. I’m sorry to say that the guy, you know. Expired. I wanted to apologize in person, because I know you wanted to question him again. And I’ll be having a talk with the boys, don’t you worry about that.”
