Page 11
“There are a hundred doctors who do travel medicine. Concierge physicians. People who advertise.”
“You think I want someone on the bench when I can have the star player?”
Her eyes narrow. “Why didn’t you just recruit me? Legitimately. An offer letter. A phone call. Like a person.”
“You could have said no.”
The office goes quiet while she runs that sentence through every instrument she owns. “That’s psychotic.”
“Sociopathic. You’re a doctor, I’m sure you know the difference. And I don’t gamble on essential personnel.”
“Essential.” She laughs, no humor in it. “You kidnapped me.”
“Kidnapped is a strong word.”
“It’s the legal word. It’s the exact legal word. I’m a hostage.”
“You are not a hostage.”
“No?” She spreads her arms. “Then I’m free to go?”
“Hostages are ransomed. Who would I ransom you to?”
Her brow lines. “You’re not word-playing your way out of this.”
I pause. “Call it what you will, doc. As far as I’m concerned, you are a captive friend.”
“A captive—” She takes a full step toward the desk. Fear is retreating in her faster than sense would advise. “I am NOT your friend. When we land wherever we’re going, I will find a consulate, a tourist with a phone, and I will tell everyone—”
“You could do that.” I smile at her threat. Confidence tells her the exits she counted are decorative. There is no out. Only through.
She switches lanes fast. “The olive oil. On a scale of one to actual olives, how much of your business is olive oil?”
“We bottle a beautiful arbequina.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It was cheekier than an answer. They’re often confused.”
“Then answer this one. What do you need a doctor for?” She gestures at the length of me, aggravated by her own point. “You’re the healthiest specimen of fifty-four I’ve ever audited, and your mother lives in Italy. Italy has doctors. Italy invented half of medicine.”
The true answer is in the locked drawer with the Genoa manifests, and it will stay there.
“My mother is eighty and stubborn, and her heart is a matter of some discussion between her and her cardiologist.”
“Are you a criminal, Mr. Sartorre?”
I shake my head once. “Criminal implies one has been prosecuted.”
She grits her teeth. “Do you professionally perform crimes?”
“As opposed to performing them at an amateur level?”
Her frustration groan forces me to remember last night, when I had her on the edge of glory. I shift in my seat to avoid the ache in my balls. “Just give me a straight fucking answer, Lupo.”
“Fine. No one will lay a hand on you. Not my people, not anyone else, not while you’re under my roof or my authority. Whatever else you believe about me today, believe that, because it will save us both a tiresome amount of drama.”
She sighs. “Give me my phone.”
