Page 74
Hours later, I have some of what I need. Dmitri sits slumped in the seat, his face a mess of purple and red. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and he breathes through a crooked nose. When I stand, he spits blood onto the concrete between his feet and doesn’t bother to lift his head.
I have a location, a date, and a list of players. Bruno’s planning a major harvest event with two dozen victims, already sourced. They’re scheduled for transport in ten days. However, according to Dmitri, the final processing location kept shifting. He explained Bruno’s worry about the Naples facility being exposed and how they’ve temporarily shuttered operations there.
No matter how much I pushed him to reveal the harvest site, Dmitri held firm. He only admitted to me that it’s somewhere secure, that Bruno must have been preparing for months, and that his own people don’t fully understand.
It’s progress, but not enough.
After deciding to let Dmitri stew for a day, I tell the men to get the prisoner back to holding. As I emerge from the warehouse and into the fading afternoon light, the brightness stings my eyes. Lucia waits by the door, her face pale against the gray building, her green eyes fixed on the blood spattered across my shirt. The evidence of what I’ve been doing is written in a rust brown Rorschach test across my chest.
“How long have you been here?” My voice is hoarse from shouting.
In the past three days, I haven’t spent much time in our quarters. I slip in after midnight and leave before dawn while she sleeps, or at least pretends to.
“Long enough.” Her voice is controlled, like she’s cutting dead tissue out of a wound. “Sophia said you were down here. I wanted to see you.”
I should go to her, pull her close, and let the smell and warmth of her remind me that good still exists in the world, that some lives are worth protecting.
Instead, I stay frozen, aware of what she must see when she looks at me. A man covered in another man’s blood, fresh off hours of violence that prove I’m a predator.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The words come out harsher than I intend, edged with what might be shame. “You shouldn’t see this.”
“I’m a doctor, Marco. I’ve seen worse in the ER on a Saturday night. Knife wounds, gunshots, shampoo bottles in places they shouldn’t be. I’ve witnessed injuries that would turn your stomach.”
“Have you?” I step closer, and she doesn’t retreat, though uncertainty flickers in her eyes. “Have you watched as piece after piece is cut off a man and cast to the ground while you decide whether to keep going? Have you smelled fear sweat and fresh blood mixed together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins? Have you looked into someone’s eyes while you calculate exactly how much pain it will take to get what you need?”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Is that what you were doing? Calculating? Deciding whether to keep hurting him?”
The question deals me an unexpected blow. The answer should be no. I was extracting information and doing whatever necessary to protect the family, to protect her, and to stop Bruno before he can touch her. But somewhere in those hours, the lines blurred. The satisfaction of inflicting pain summons an old familiar voice in my mind. It tells me that I’ve always enjoyed violence and insists that this is who I really am.
“No.” The lie tastes like copper on my tongue. “I was doing my job.”
She studies me, and I have the uncomfortable sense that she sees more than I want her to. Those eyes are trained to diagnose and identify symptoms. I want none of mine identified right now.
Lucia’s eyes cease roving my face, and she nods, though I’m not sure whether that little nod is one of acceptance or resignation.
“I made dinner,” she mutters, her face revealing nothing of her thoughts. “Well, I boiled the pasta. And heated up sauce from the little Italian place you like. My talents in the kitchen end at not burning the water.” She gestures toward the villa, toward warmth and light and the grace I don’t deserve. “If you want to, or when you’re ready, I’ll be there.”
She leaves without waiting for my response, her footsteps quiet on the gravel, and I stand alone in the warehouse doorway, watching her go. The distance between us widens with every step, until it feels like miles instead of feet.
I don’t make it to dinner.
The memory of her uncertain expression is more than I can bear. Despite scrubbing, blood is still crusted beneath my nails, and I couldn’t bear to look at her like this. The part of me that enjoyed the interrogation whispers in my ear that she should be scared and run while she still can.
Instead, I shower until the water runs cold, staying under the spray until my skin is raw while trying to wash away the stain beneath the surface. The water swirls pink down the drain, and I wish the thoughts in my mind and the worries were that easy to erase. Then I sit at my desk and stare at the wall. The bed is ten feet behind me, and she’s waiting, but I can’t go to her because I don’t deserve to.
When I finally fold, it’s past midnight. She’s curled on her side of the bed, turned away from me, but I can tell from the quality of her breathing and the tension in her shoulders that she’s not asleep.
I slide in beside her, keeping distance between us. The empty expanse of sheets is a declaration. The heavy, suffocating silence stretches, filled with the words we’re not saying.
“Marco?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you hold me?”
Her quiet request breaks down a wall I’ve been constructing since I walked out of that warehouse.
I draw closer, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back against my chest. She relaxes, her hand covering mine where it rests on her stomach. Her body heat seeps into me through the thin fabric of her shirt.
