He swipes to a wider shot: perimeter roads, a canal that snakes past the rear fence, and a caretaker shack by a river gate. "There’s a way to watch without touching," he says. "Tonight, I'll have men posted to count shifts and mark command paths. If the numbers make sense, and you still feel like a freight train, we can talk entry."
"Freight train’s offended," I say. "But it will allow reconnaissance."
"Freight train is learning manners," he replies, pleased.
I lean back against the pillows, let my ankle bump his shin, and don’t apologize. "If we’re doing this your careful way, I want a second coffee and a promise you won’t chloroform me again."
"Coffee is easy." He leans in like he might steal the cup, then doesn’t. The not-doing is a touch. I feel it anyway. "And I don’t use chloroform."
"Whatever romance-novel trick you used," I say, smiling despite myself. "If you do it again, I’ll tell Grigori you made me nap."
He winces theatrically. "He’d send a fruit basket with a bomb in it."
"He’d send you a silence and make you live in it." I lick astreak of sugar from my lip. His eyes drop again. Oh, he wants. Good. I want, too. Better.
"Shower," his voice is a fraction lower. "Then we plan."
"Go find more food and come back in thirty," I order, snagging the last cornetto and pushing the tray into his hands. My fingers brush his; he’s warm, steady. Infuriating. Reliable.
He stands, lingering, like he’s giving me the option to say don’t go. I don’t. He doesn’t need that power. Not yet.
But as he moves to the door, I hear myself say, "Steph?"
He looks over his shoulder.
"Thank you," I say. For the coffee. For the sleep I didn’t want, because we both know I wouldn't have taken the damn pills without him insisting. For answering Grigori’s pride with something that wasn’t mockery.
He nods once. "Don’t make me regret it."
"Bring me one more of those sfincione," I counter, "and I’ll consider being normal for two minutes."
His grin is quick and criminal. "One minute," he says. "Let’s not rush your development."
He leaves. I finish the cornetto slowly, savoring the last sweet grit of sugar, and slide off the bed. The room tilts, then steadies. I feel strong enough to chase ghosts through concrete and count men by their heat.
The water in the shower will be hot. The day will be long. And Stephano Conti, damn him, is starting to sound like the kind of man who gets under your skin and builds a little outpost there.
I let the thought live for exactly one breath. Then I lock it up, step into the bathroom, and turn the tap until the world goes white with steam.
By late afternoon,the day feels like it's never going to end. Oksana wants air. I want a beer. We compromise and take both.
We cut down the street to the same little bar I went to last night. The TV catches my attention for a second; Senator Kingsley is being mentioned. Kingsley, a Senator for Nevada, is on our payroll, so any news about him is worth noting. I glance over the caption. His Chief of Staff has been kidnapped. I'm assuming Marcello will be on this, since it's his payroll the Senator is on, and my attention wanders to the brass lights, which are trying to decide if they want to work or not. The flickering will give me a headache if we stay too long. A grimy mirror that’s seen too many faces hangs behind the bar. After a short debate about alcohol and pills, I order two lagers and something salty in a bowl, then we claim a corner.
We barely get our first sip when fate taps us on the shoulder. Omar and Billy arrive, wives in tow, all sunburn and vacation bracelets.
"Alan!" Billy booms the fake name I gave him last night. "And this must be the lovely?—"
"Agatha," I supply, elbowing her ribs gently: be nice.
She gives me a blade-thin look and then turns it into silk for the ladies. "Hi."
Ten minutes later, she’s in a deep conversation with them, and I’m watching her do something that makes a knot in my chest loosen: commiserate. The wives talk quietly, tapping their sternums, sharing the dull ache, the weird tightness, the itch under healing skin. Oksana nods and answers questions like someone who knows the map and isn’t ashamed to own it. I take a slow, mean satisfaction in it. My girl. My problem. My pride.
"Who was your surgeon?" Omar’s wife asks earnestly.
I slide in with a hand on Oksana’s elbow and a smile bright enough to blind. "Oh, honey," I say sweetly, "It’s time to call my mother and check on the triplets. If you’ll excuse us—family emergency."
Oksana doesn't miss a beat andaccidentallygrinds her heel into my foot. Pain darts up my leg. I keep smiling.
