"Downstairs. Prepping the room. He does this thing where he arranges everything before he starts. Chair, table, lights. Like he's setting a stage." Emilio shakes his head. "My brother is a very specific kind of terrifying."
"I know."
"Do you want me to take you somewhere? Guest quarters. Kitchen. There's a room Leone set up for you on the third floor. Clean sheets, private bathroom, lock on the door."
"Take me to Claudio first."
Emilio raises an eyebrow. But he doesn't argue. He leads me down two flights of stairs, through a corridor I haven't seen, past a guard who nods at Emilio and doesn't look at me. The sub-level is colder than the rest of the compound. The walls are thicker. The air tastes like concrete and recycled ventilation.
Claudio is in the corridor outside a heavy metal door. He's rolling his sleeves to his elbows. The gun is on a table beside the door, next to a bottle of water and a folder I assume is Alexandra's financial evidence. His face is blank. Contemplating.
He sees me. His face shifts. Barely. A crack in the surface, just enough for something warmer to leak through before he seals it again.
"You should go upstairs," he says.
"I will. In a minute." I walk to him. Stand in front of him. Put my hand flat on his chest, over his heart. It beats steady under my palm. "I want you to know something before you go in there."
"What?"
"He saw me, and he decided I should die. He sent men to my apartment while I was sleeping. He sent men to this compound while I was locked in a room counting ceiling tiles. He tracked us across three states. And I'm still here." I press harder against his chest. "I'm still here, Claudio. He tried to erase me and I'm still here. So whatever you do in that room, you do it knowing that he failed. He failed and I won and I'm standing in this corridor with my hand on your chest, and that's the only thing that matters."
His hand covers mine. Presses it harder against his heart.
"I'll come find you when it's done," he says.
"Third floor. Emilio's taking me."
"Okay."
I lean up. Kiss him. Not hard, not desperate, not the collision of the farmhouse or the claiming of the cabin. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that saysI'm here and I'll be here when you're doneand doesn't need anything else.
He kisses me back. His hand finds my jaw. Holds me there for three extra seconds. Then let’s go.
I turn and walk back to Emilio, who is studying the ceiling with the exaggerated fascination of a man pretending he didn't just watch his brother kiss a woman outside an interrogation room.
"Not a word," I say.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Your face says otherwise."
"My face is a liar. Family trait."
He leads me upstairs. Third floor. A clean room with a bed and a bathroom and a lock on the door. He leaves me with a bottle of water, two beers, and a look that says more than his words.
"He's different with you," Emilio says from the doorway. "You know that, right?"
"Different how?"
"Human." He shrugs. "My brother's been a machine for twenty years. You make him a person. Don't break that."
He closes the door.
I shower.
Not because I'm dirty. Because I need the heat and the noise and the pressure of water on my skull to process the last three hours. The bathroom is better than the motel. Real tiles. Real pressure. Hot water that stays hot. I stand under the spray and let it beat against my shoulders, and I close my eyes and I don't count anything.
I don't count the tiles. I don't count my breaths. I don't count the exits or the seconds or the vertebrae.
