If he wasn't there for the money, then why was he there?
A soft knock at the door breaks my focus. I check the security feed monitor on my side and find Katarina waiting on the other side of the door.
"Come in," I say, my voice sounding rough and gravelly, a consequence of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
The heavy oak door creaks open slowly, and Katarina steps into the room. She looks like a specter in the afternoon light, wearing a red dress. The thin straps reveal the dark, mottled bruises on her collarbone.
She looks gaunt, her eyes still haunted by pain, but a quiet, simmering resolve has replaced the look of terror. Despite being bruised and tired, she still looks every bit like Argentina’s most besotted actress as she walks slowly towards my desk. I can’t help the hard-on that strains in my pants as her big eyes meet mine.
"Miss me?" I tease, looking up at her. I lay my arms on the armrests of my chair and lean back.
"I couldn't stay in that room any longer," she says as she walks around the desk and stops in front of me, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her dress.
“How are your feet?”
“It’s a little better, but it still hurts to walk.”
“You shouldn’t be walking too much yet. You need to heal.”
"Well, I was...thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," I reply. "Especially in this house."
She doesn't smile back. Instead, she takes a few steps closer, her gaze flickering to the monitors flashing the property’s security surveillance, before settling on mine.
"I want to go out, Damiano. I need clothes, and... I need a hairdresser."
I arch an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. It’s the last thing I expected her to ask for.
"A hairdresser? You’re worried about your hair while Nicolo is turning over every stone out there to find you?"
"I'm worried about being recognized," she shoots back.
She takes another step, the sunlight catching the sharp line of her jaw.
"I want to change it. All of it. I want a different color. Something that doesn't look like the woman in those magazines. Besides, it would only make it harder for Nicolo to find me."
I study her for a long moment, dissecting the request. I understand her logic; it’s practical, even brilliant in its simplicity. But I can clearly see the psychological weight of it. I know how significant haircuts are for women;she wants to kill the woman she used to be.
"Sicily isn't Buenos Aires, Katarina," I say, my voice softening as I lean forward. "My brother and I have eyes everywhere, but so does Nicolo. He has connections with the local police. I can’t risk you going out to a salon."
"Then find one that isn't public," she counters, her chin lifting in defiance. "You’re in the mafia, right? Surely you own a hairdresser who knows how to keep their mouth shut and their hands steady. Or are you not as powerful as you claim to be?"
I let out a low, dry chuckle. The bite in her voice is refreshing.
She’s learning my language.
"We’ll leave in ten minutes,” I say with a smirk.
∞∞∞
It’s about a thirty-minute drive to town. Gio drives, Julian sits in front, and a second SUV of guards follows behind. I called in a favor to Nina—Lucian’s older sister—to arrange a visit to herboutique so Katarina can shop in peace. It’s the only place I am comfortable letting her go because I know Lucian has this place heavily guarded for her sister 24/7.
When I look at Katarina, she’s staring out the window in deep thought. I take my time to admire her face from where I’m sitting. Her bruises are still visible, but are healing well, and so are the cuts on her eyebrow and lips.
The memory of her bloodied face that night at Lux reminds me that I’ve yet to kill the bastards who did that to her.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice pulls me out of my dark fantasy and back to her angelic face.
