I don’t want Lena flailing her way toward more blood loss, so I hold her to the bed, one hand squeezing her right calf, the other pinning her left wrist to the mattress, our chests one heavy breath away from touching.
“You.” It’s more accusation than recognition, but I find perverse relief in hearing her voice, even though it’s weak and full of venom.
“Me.” My face hovers above hers and we stare at each other for one beat, two, before Johnny coughs. He works for me, not the other way around, so I stare down at Lena a little longer, as if her eyes will show me the answers to everything that went wrong tonight.
When nothing but anger, pain, and a healthy dose of fear stare back at me, I release her limbs but continue to invade her personal space. With one hand propped on either side of her shoulders, one knee weighing down the mattress between her thighs, and my other foot on the floor, she’s captured beneath me. It’s time our patient gets a reality check.
“Lena, you’ve been out cold for at least thirty minutes. You’ve been shot. You’ve lost some blood.” I strip the edge from my voice when she gets even paler. I don’t want her passing out again. “You’re in a safe place, now. You need to let us clean and bandage your wound.”
The look she gives me is pure defiance. Lena snakes the arm on her uninjured side toward the unoccupied side of the bed, as if some escape route is hidden there. When all she finds is too many frilly pillows and empty air, she slaps the mattress in frustration. And cries out when the motion jars her body.
That does it.
Anger I’ve been trying to keep in check flares, hardening my expression. I track the second she registers it. Lena freezes beneath me. Before, in her apartment, even in the dark, we were close enough I could identify the carousel of emotions passing through her eyes. When you’ve lived the life I have, you get very familiar with people’s reactions to danger and imminent death.
Shock, horror. Defiance, desperation. Sometimes even acceptance.
But the emotion in Lena’s dark eyes as she stares up at me is just one thing: pure undiluted fear. She’s more terrified in this moment than when we were dodging bullets.
I’ve let my mask slip too far. I’ve let her glimpse the true Rem and it’s too much for her, for this situation, especially tonight.
Mycapobelieves this woman is a danger to our family. Ari and I have seen the evidence ourselves.
Every piece of intel I have about Lena Haywood says she’s a threat to the Cerreti family. Which makes her an enemy of the Cerreti family. One that, if we were back in the old country under strict ‘Ndrangheta rule, I’d be required to dispatch without thought.
But we’re in Chicago, inmycity, and I’ve never held with killing women and children, especially when my instincts are telling me something about this situation is much more complicated than it appears.
My instincts have kept me alive for thirty-three years. I see no reason to start ignoring them now.
With a deep breath, I rein in my anger and school my face into a blank expression. Lena is still watching me so carefully, her pulse jumping at the base of her throat. She’s doing a valiant job of keeping her emotions under control, but that vein is giving her away. Watching it makes something uncomfortable prickle in my chest. I admire her fight, her survival instinct, I do, but I don’t want her fighting me. Not right now, not when she’s injured and we’re wasting precious time tending to her wound.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
She blinks but doesn’t relax. No acknowledgement of what I’ve said. No acceptance. No trust.
Apparently tonight has fucked me up more than I thought because the inexplicable need to have Lena trust me hits me upside the head so hard, I have to blink away stars.
By all accounts, we’re enemies. She hates me. I suspect her. But as Bianca’s sweetly smelling guest room starts to take on the sour scent of blood, I know I’m not going to resolve the mystery of Lena Haywood without giving a little ground. Conceding a battle to win the war.
Slowly, so she can keep track of my movements, I get up from the bed. Lena, Bianca, and Johnny all watch as I take several steps back and fold my arms across my chest. The move pushes my Beretta away from my waist in a way that undermines the overall message, but, you know, nothing about this night is going according to plan.
“Lena.” I wait until her eyes travel from my gun to my face. I meet her expression and keep myself still. Only when she’s sure I’m not going to pounce on her again does her breathing even out. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice the slight flush that hits her cheeks. Or how beautiful she is, even now.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” I gesture to the couple behind me. “Neither are Bianca or Johnny. You’re in their house. You have a bullet wound in your side that we need to clean andbandage. It’s not serious, a flesh wound only, but we need to make sure it doesn’t get infected. Understand?”
Her eyes never leaving mine, Lena nods.Thank fuck.
Point made, I come to the edge of the bed. My hands are still carefully tucked away, but I’m using my sheer size to emphasize the next point. “Someone tried to kill you tonight. I don’t know who and I don’t know why but I know that they were fucking serious and it’s only by chance you’re still alive.”
“And because of you.” Carefully pushing herself upright, Lena glares at me as she grits her teeth against the pain. “You shouldn’t have been in my apartment, you were breaking and entering, and you still haven’t told me why.”
I look down at her, silent. I haven’t told her why and I’m not planning to start now.
“But,” she forces out between clenched teeth, “you’re also the reason I’m not dead. Knocking me to the ground, getting me out of the apartment while under fire… You know, all that.”
Yeah, I do know all that. I feel uncharacteristically unsettled every time I think about the red sniper dot seeking out the back of Lena’s head while she watched the news on her computer. There’s a voice inside my head, one I’ve never heard before, that keeps whispering how glad it is I was there to pull her down before the bullet found its mark.
The look Lena and I exchange is knowing, intimate in a way that only happens between two people who have shared the same intense experience. “Yes. All that.” It comes out on a rough cough and, without warning, Johnny whacks my back. “Che cazzo?!”
