"Or get better guards." My voice is air and knives. "The one on the left favors his right leg. Men who limp shoot faster out of guilt."
He doesn’t turn to check, which means he already knows. He steps inside; the glass sighs shut behind him. Up close, I can smell the storm he carries—gun oil, clean soap, something like cedar burned down to its brass.
"You called someone," he says, conversational as a threat.
I angle my head. "Hospital privacy is very progressive in New York."
"I didn’t need to hear the words." He drags a chair withhis boot and sits, forearms on his thighs, making the cheap plastic look like a throne. "I heard your face."
"Did my face say anything interesting?"
"It said you’re not afraid of me." He studies me with quiet, patient violence. "And it said you think I made a mistake."
"Did you?"
He doesn’t blink. "No."
My pulse does something I don’t authorize. "Then we’re both very clever."
"Tell me why you came to our table bleeding."
"Because the other table was on fire," I deadpan, and let a smile cut my mouth. "And because you have better silverware."
He rests his palm lightly on the rail of my bed, not touching, but close enough feel the heat. "I don’t care who you are on the phone with, Zhena.I care who you are when they come through that door."
"Zhena," I repeat—wife—letting the word roll and digesting the fact that he speaks Russian. "Big word for a small room."
"It’s a big room," he says. "You’re just lying down."
I look up at him and decide I like the way power sounds when he forgets to hide it. "You said you protect what’s yours."
"I do."
"Then consider this my wedding gift." I lower my voice until it can’t be heard past his collar. "The Venezuelans have Cells here who run their orders through churches."
He is silent when he stands. He doesn’t ask how I know. He doesn’t tell me I’m lying. He just nods once, the barest concession a king makes when a stranger puts the right map on his table.
"I’ll have someone look into it," he says. "You rest."
I salute with two fingers. "Yes, dear."
He should bristle. He doesn’t. He walks to the door, then pauses, half-turning like the room owes him a secret and he’s waiting for it to pay.
"Eat," he says.
When he leaves, the suits shift back into their posts. The nurse comes in with antibiotics and a look that says if I try to give her any trouble, she’s calling security.
I let the drip take me down a notch. The ceiling tiles line up like chess squares. Elsewhere, in a hundred churches, a hundred old women fold bulletins around hymns they don’t know are blood.
I close my eyes and picture Solnyshko laughing in her kitchen, sunlight on her bare feet, while Grigori pretends not to watch. I picture the Italian’s mouth when he said Zhena.
Most of all, I picture the absent look of surprise on Stephano's face when I told him about the Cells and hymns. He already knew. But he didn't tell me that he did. That makes him not just interesting, but dangerous. A man I should watch out for, not look forward to beingmarriedto.
The next morning…
The guest roomlooks like a quiet heist: matte shopping bags with well-known designer logos stand at attention on a bench, filled with a silk robe, soft T-shirts, cotton boy shorts, slippers, a hairbrush that won’t tear at curls, shampoo, face wash, lip balm, a decent phone charger that won’t fry the port, noise-canceling buds, a tablet and even a laptop. The receipt from the private shopper could pay a nurse’s salary for a year. Whatever. If Ana's going to play wife, she’ll have the trappings. If the hospital cameras ever leak, no one will be able to say I half-assed my vows or didn't take care ofmy wife.
The thought of nurses makes me think of Violet, the woman Marcello is going to marry next weekend. Funny, she used to be an ICU nurse at St. Raphael's. If she andMarcello hadn't fallen in love after he got shot, she would likely be the one taking care of Ana right now.
