"Good," he murmurs. "Again."
My chest spasms. Then, finally, air. A shaky breath slips past the knot in my throat. Relief floods through my lungs. My throat loosens slightly.
"Good," he repeats, quieter now. "Now out."
I follow his breathing.
In.
Out.
My hands still clutch his shirt like a lifeline. The room slowly stops spinning.
"Good," he murmurs. "Good girl."
I breathe again. And again, against my scratchy throat. Until a coughing fit rakes my body. The man immediately leans closer, and his expression tightens with concern.
"Let me get you some water." Warily, he rises. "You good?"
I nod weakly, still trying to pull air into my lungs without my chest locking up again. He releases me slowly and moves across the room. Towards a small bar area in the corner, dark wood, crystal glasses, a row of expensive bottles that probably cost more than my car.
He grabs a bottle of water from a cabinet that doubles as a fridge and twists the cap open. While he moves, the fog in my head begins to thin. Filtering through the haze are memories, images. Slow at first. Then faster.
The Mexicans.
The warehouse.
Pete, tied to the chair.
My stomach twists violently. They killed him! They were going to kill me, too. I remember the gun. The bald man. The door crashing open. Gunfire. Men shouting. Bodies dropping. So many bodies.
My hands begin to shake.
The stranger returns and presses the bottle into my hand. "Here."
I take it, my fingers tremble slightly, and I sip carefully, lest I choke on the water. The coolness of the liquid feels incredible on my throat. I lower the bottle and look at him. "Who are you?"
He studies me for a second before answering. "Gabe. Gabriel D'Amato."
The name resonates with me. I've heard it before. Not in social circles. No, on the news and not the good kind. Casino owner. Mob ties. What do they say, from the frying pan into the fire? That's what this feels like.
"You're safe here," he continues calmly. "I won't let anything happen to you."
The strange thing is… I believe him. Mob ties or not. I don't know why. But I do. Another memory suddenly slams into place. The gun. My eyes widen. "I shot you."
He shakes his head without looking away from me. "Just a scratch. Don't worry about it."
Of course I worry about it. How could I not? I freaking shot him.Him. A mafia boss. "You were bleeding."
He shrugs. "I've had worse." Then one corner of his mouth lifts faintly. "Honestly, of all the times I've been shot…" He glances back at me. "This one will probably be my favorite scar."
I stare at him. That is a very strange thing to say. As strange as this conversation, as strange as this place. I drink more waterjust to have something to do other than stare at him. Or think about Pete and that warehouse.
The silence stretches between us. My head still feels like it's wrapped in cotton, but the fog is lifting now. Slowly. Reluctantly.
"You saved me," I finally bring out. The words sound distant, like they belong to someone else. My eyes narrow slightly as another memory surfaces. "You were at the police station."
He nods once. "Yes."
