I bite my lip not to laugh, but I know she means well, and in any other situation, she could save a life. Not here, though. Not today.
Or if any life would be saved, it'd be Stephano's; he just doesn't realize it yet.
Reluctantly, I turn my gaze from him to her and smile. "I'm good. Really, thank you though."
"Well, if you're sure." I make an effort to keep my eye open, lest she get the idea that I do need help. I doubt her security guards would survive Stephano.
As soon as she's out of the room, Stephano steps back into my space. "Why are the Venezuelans after you? They tried to kill you at the airport and here."
That is news to me. "They were here?"
He nods.
"You saved me?"
He nods again.
Sarcastically, I throw him a melting glance, "My hero."
"Cut the crap. Why?"
As much fun as it has been antagonizing him, he's right. It is time to cut the crap. Nico is still with the Mexicans. As he said, they won't kill him; they'll patch him up, but it won't be pleasant.
I try to tell myself I'm only feeling like I owe him because he saved my life, that I'm only doing this to figure out what game the Venezuelans are playing with the Italians and us. That I'm protecting my brother, protecting the Bratva. But it's not entirely true. I like Nico, and I want to get him out.
"Fine," I exhale loudly, "but not here."
He raises an eyebrow, which only makes him look more arrogant, if possible. "My men are stationed outside; you're safe here." He assures me.
"Oh yeah? You're sure? No bugs?"
He rolls his eyes, "Why would there be bugs? Even the Venezuelans can't work that fast."
I point toward the window and the high-rises across from the hospital, surrounding us. "Ever heard of long-range listening devices?"
He glares at me. "You were shot twice. Beat up. Who are you? CIA?"
That elicits a deep chuckle from me. "Try again."
His fury shows in his eyes when he pulls out his gun and presses the muzzle against my forehead, "No. More. Games."
"You're not going to shoot me," I tell him confidently.
"Because you are a gorgeous supermodel underneath all that bruised, swollen skin, marshmallow?"
I shake my head against the barrel, "Because you want answers."
"I can get them somewhere else. You're not unique."
"Maybe not. Maybe there are more women out there who know how to hide from a…temporale?"
For a second, I think he's going to pull the trigger and wonder if it was worth needling him. But then he pulls the gun back and throws his fist into the monitor. The glass fractures, a high-pitched alarm calls the nurse back, and the look Stephano throws me is clear: I've come as close as I can to pushing his breaking point without losing my life.
I letthe nurse fuss over my hand because the world needs a second to stop spinning. Her gloved fingers are small and efficient; the band aid and the cold cleaner are a businesslike ritual that lets me recompose as much as the sting of the antiseptic. I let her talk at me—what’s your name, do you feel dizzy—because the sound of a woman giving orders in a calm voice is a kind of anchor I haven’t practiced in a long time.
I need to regroup, get my mind in order, and get away from that woman on the bed. She pushed me so close to my edge that the barrel of my own gun tasted like surrender. Not breaking. Conti men don’t break. We detonate. We erase. We end things.
And for one heartbeat, I almost ended her.
