Get the drones out to the base tonight, locals say the Cartel owns it.
My phone lights up with my father’s name again. I watch it ring, feeling the old habit reach for me, then let it die in my hand.
"Quel vecchio infame,"—wretched old man—I whisper to the dark and look back at Oksana sleeping, fragile as a blade.
The next morning…
I waketo the soft itch of sunlight on my eyelids and a head that feels… cottoned, but not broken. Thankfully, the fuzz is a curtain, not a cage. I blink my eyes open to an empty room. No Stephano. For a moment, I'm worried. Did he ever come back last night? But then I see his jacket on the chair, which wasn't there when I fell asleep. I'm just about to toss the thin sheet off me when the door clicks and Stephano slips in. In his arms, he has paper bags from which wafts the sweet, mean smell of coffee.
"Good morning," he says, smug as always. He sets the tray on the bedside table like he’s delivering contraband.
I smile at him because… coffee. Not because I’m starting to like him, or God forbid, the sex that won't stop living rent-free in my head, sex that I absolutely didn’t think about last night.
"Good morning," I echo, already holding my hands out. "Gimme, gimme."
He laughs, warm and surprised. "For a moment, you looked like a normal woman."
I snort. "Define normal."
"Someone who sayspleasebefore hijacking the coffee."
"Then I’m abnormal," I say, curling my fingers around the cup. The heat bites perfectly. Greedily, I take a careful sip. It’s dark and a little burnt, Italian enough to swagger. Bliss. "And if you used decaf, I’ll reorganize your face."
"Try me." He tears open a paper bag and produces a small feast: sfincione squares glossy with tomato and onion, still warm; a ricotta-filled cornetto dusted with powdered sugar; a wedge of frittata that smells like rosemary and potatoes; a tiny tub of pistachio cream that glows the pale green of dangerous promises.
My stomach actually purrs.
"Eat," he orders, but his tone is soft. He sits on the edge of the chair like he needs to keep a respectful inch of air between us.Sensible. I add a few points to his list.
I bite into the sfincione, a mix of sweet onion and salted anchovy. The crust is a whisper of chewy, but the bottom is oil-soft and out of this world. I close my eyes. "Okay," I murmur. "You live anotherday."
"High praise." He nudges the pistachio cream toward me. "Locally made. Omar swears by it."
"Omar?" I raise an eyebrow. That's a new name.
"Oh, yeah, I made some friends last night. Americans. Billy and Omar. Their wives had plastic surgery too."
He takes a drink of his coffee, watching me way too nonchalantly over the rim. I take the bait. "Too?"
"Mm-hmm." He doesn’t blink. "Told them you’d had a breast augmentation. Strictly medical discussion, of course."
I freeze. "Youwhat?"
He gestures with his cup. "It came up naturally in conversation."
"Naturally?What conversation leads to younaturallyannouncing my cup size to total strangers?"
He looks up, thoughtful. "It's a good disguise since you're still hurt."
It takes a bit to keep an irritated expression on my face, but when I say, "You bonded overimplants?" I'm having a hard time keeping the amusement out of my voice.
"Shared human experience," he deadpans. "Billy said his wife’s incisions looked painful. I said yours were?—"
"Don’t finish that sentence," I warn, pointing my coffee cup at him like a weapon.
He grins—slow,dangerous, unrepentant. "—beautifully healed. That’s all I said."
"Oh, you’resodead." I toss a napkin at him. It hits his chest, sliding down like a surrender flag he doesn’t deserve.
