"In your living room."
"Yes." He's watching me carefully. He's cataloging my reactions. He's looking for signs of shock or hysteria or breakdown.
I'm a nurse. I've seen death. I've seen trauma. I've held pressure on wounds and watched people bleed out on gurneys and called time of death more times than I can count.
But I've never seen someone killed. I've never see someone killed right in front of me. I know death, and I’ve seen the moment when a person becomes a body, but I’ve never been witness to a murder.
"He was going to kill you," I say.
"He was going to try."
"And then he would have killed me."
"Yes, right after he raped you."
The truth of that settles over me. If Luca hadn't been faster, hadn't been better, that Russian would have shot him and then turned his violence on me. I'd be the one bleeding out on thefloor right now. I should feel something about that. Horror. Fear. Gratitude. I feel numb.
Luca reaches out slowly and takes my hand. His fingers are warm. They're steady. There's blood on them but I don't pull away.
"I need to make a call," he says quietly. "Someone will come take care of this. But I need you to go to my room. Lock the door. Don't come out until I tell you it's safe."
"I'm not leaving you with a body."
The corner of his mouth twitches. It's almost a smile. "I've handled worse."
"I don't doubt that." I look at the Russian again. He's young. Maybe younger than me. "Who was he?"
"Bratva soldier. Sent to deliver a message."
"What message?"
"That I'm not untouchable." He stands and pulls me to my feet. "And they're right. I'm not. Which is why you're going to my room while I handle this."
"What if someone else comes?"
"No one else is coming. This was a lone wolf play. Stupid and desperate." He cups my face with both hands. Blood smears across my cheek but I don't flinch. "I need you in that room. Now."
I nod.
He walks me to his bedroom. Now he's checking the door lock and the windows. He's making sure I'm secure.
"I'll come get you when it's done," he says. "Soon. Not long."
"Okay."
He kisses me. Hard. Claiming. He leaves. I hear his footsteps. Then I hear his voice, low and clipped, speaking on the phone. I can't make out the words.
I sit on the edge of his bed and wait. The room smells like him. Clean. Expensive. Male.
I should cry. I should shake. I should have some kind of emotional response to watching a man die, but all I feel is tired. I'm tired of fighting. Tired of pretending this isn't what it is. Tired of lying to myself about what I want.
I want to be safe. And the safest place I know is with the man who just killed someone in his living room without hesitation.
What does that say about me? I don't think I want to know.
Time passes. I don't know how much. Could be minutes. Could be longer. I'm not wearing a watch and my phone is somewhere in the apartment, dead or dying.
The door opens and Luca steps inside.
