Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Adrian
Morning comes too early.
Not because I slept through any of the night and wanted more of it.
Because I barely slept at all.
The room has gone from black to gray around the edges, the curtains catching the first weak light of morning, and I’m still exactly where Caterina left me.
Propped against too many pillows in a bed that isn’t mine, one hand resting near the bandage on my side, jaw tight enough that my teeth ache.
Pain kept me awake.
That’s the simple answer.
The wound burned all night in slow, mean pulses. Every breath pulled at the stitches. Every slight shift sent heat flaring through my side and into my ribs until I had to stop moving entirely and wait for it to settle.
Dr. Alfonsi was right about the hospital. He was right about imaging, observation, pain management, all the things I refused because hospitals are wide-open systems with too many people, too many entrances, too much paperwork, and not enough certainty.
So yes.
Pain kept me awake.
But pain, I know how to handle.
Pain is simple. It can be counted through, managed, compartmentalized. You breathe around it. You do not give it more importance than the mission.
Caterina Conti is not simple.
And I spent too much of the night thinking about her mouth.
That is the problem.
Not the whole problem, but the part I have the least patience for.
I stare at the ceiling and let out a slow breath through my nose, careful not to pull too deep.
It does not help.
Nothing about this is acceptable.
Not the fact that I kissed her back. Not the fact that for one brutal second, I forgot every rule I have lived by for years.
Not the fact that even now, with a hole in my side and a house full of armed men around me, my body remembers the weight of her on my body for those few seconds before the pain in my side exploded.
Her lips had been soft.
That thought alone is enough to make my eyes close.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
Because the dark behind my eyelids is worse.
There she is again. Hair loose. Sleep shorts. Long, bare legs. Her hand on my arm as she helped me sit up carefully. Her knee sinking into the mattress beside my hip. Her breath against my mouth as she opened for me.
Warning bells went off in my head.
And I ignored all of them.
That is the truth I keep circling and refusing to touch for more than half a second.
She kissed me because she was scared. Because she had almost died. Because she saw my blood and felt fear and guilt and relief that she was alive. Because the body does stupid, primitive things after violence. It reaches for heat after cold. Skin after gunfire. Breath after shock.
It's a completely normal human reaction.
I know that.
I understand it better than she does.
Which means I should have turned my head the second her gaze dropped to my mouth.
I should have stopped it before it started.
Instead, I let her kiss me.
And then I kissed her back.
My hand in her hair. My thumb at her cheek. Her tongue sliding against mine. The soft catch of her breath when the kiss shifted into more dangerous territory. Hunger, danger.
I remember the feel of her waist under my hand.
I remember the way she tried to get closer without thinking through where my injury was, driven by fear and need and maybe the same thing that had been building under all our arguments for a week, whether either of us wanted to admit it or not.
I remember the hiss of pain that cut through it.
The immediate horror on her face.
That was worse than the pain.
She looked at me like she had become another weapon used against me.
I press my fingers carefully into the mattress and breathe through the flare in my side.
That is why this cannot happen.
Not because I don’t want her.
I do.
That is not in question anymore.
Especially not because I’ve been hard for her all night.
That is the first problem, the one already proven beyond denial somewhere around three in the morning when I was still staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, body hard and aching, thinking about a woman I should not be thinking about in that way, while she slept in the next room.
If she slept.
I doubt it.
I heard her door close after she left. Heard her footsteps pause. Heard her stop outside her own room for too long. Then the quiet click of the handle. Then nothing for a while.
I told myself that was good.
She had gone back where she belonged.
I had stayed where I belonged.
The line had held.
Except it hadn’t, not really.
The line is still there, but now there is blood on both sides of it.
My blood. Her fear. The memory of her mouth.
I turn my head toward the wall that separates our rooms.
Nothing.
No movement. No footstep.
Either she finally slept, or she is lying still enough not to give herself away.
Caterina is good at that.
Stillness as armor. Composure as a weapon. She can stand in the center of chaos and make everyone in it think she is unaffected.
I saw it at the casino. I saw it with Halloran. I saw it on the floor before everything went wrong.
I saw it crack last night.
That is the second problem.
I have seen too much now.
Not just the polished version. Not just the irritated client.
Not just Luca Conti’s daughter and the executive who knows the value of every square foot of her casino.
I have seen her barefoot and shaking, furious at herself for being afraid, guilty over things she didn’t cause, trying to turn panic into strategy because helplessness offends her more than danger does.
I understand her too well.
That is not good.
Understanding breeds attachment if you let it go on too long. Attachment breeds hesitation. Hesitation gets people killed.
So I will not hesitate.
I cannot.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
My hand moves toward the gun on the nightstand before my brain finishes identifying the sound.
“Adrian?” Teresa’s voice comes through, low. “It’s me.”
I let my hand fall away from the weapon. “Come in.”
The door opens a few inches, then wider. Teresa steps inside with a mug of coffee in one hand and a look on her face that tells me she has already decided she dislikes whatever she’s seeing. Her hair is pulled back, face clean of makeup, eyes tired.
Her gaze drops to the bandage, then to my face.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
She shuts the door behind her with her foot and crosses to the bed. “You didn’t sleep.”
“I slept.”
“No, you didn’t.” She sets the coffee on the nightstand, then looks at the pill bottles. Neither has moved. Her mouth tightens. “You also didn’t take anything.”
“I’m managing.”
“I hate that word from you.”
“Managing?”
“It always means you’re being stupid. But it sounds fancier.” She folds her arms.
Despite myself, my mouth curves.
She notices. “There. A sign of life.”
“Are you here to check on me or insult me?”
“Both. I’m versatile.”
That sounds like Teresa. Ruthlessly controlled because she knows panic doesn’t help anyone. She reaches for the edge of the blanket.
I catch her wrist before she can lift it.
She looks at my hand, then at me.
“I’m checking the bandage.”
“I can check it.”
“You can barely sit up without looking like you’re seeing God.”
“I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrow. “Let go.”
I let go.
There are battles worth fighting and battles that end with Teresa calling my mother and telling her I've been shot. I have some sense of self-preservation.
She checks the dressing with careful hands, professional enough not to cause pain on purpose, cousin enough that if she did cause pain, she would pretend not to feel bad about it.
“It bled through a little,” she says.
“I know.”
“Of course you know.” She smooths the tape back down. “Any dizziness? Fever? Chills? Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Lying?”
“No.”
She studies my face for a beat longer.
Teresa has always had the unnerving ability to look at a person and make them feel like she is reading between the lines. All the things they didn't say. It was annoying when she was fourteen and already smarter than half the adults in the room. It is more annoying now.
“What?” I ask.
Her gaze narrows.
I don’t like that look.
“That is not just pain,” she says.
“Teresa.”
“No.” Her head tilts slightly. “That’s interesting.”
“Nothing is interesting before coffee.”
“You have coffee.”
“I haven’t had it yet.”
She looks toward the mug, then back at me, and something in her expression shifts from medical concern to personal suspicion.
I do not like that either.
“Did something happen?”
“What could possibly have happened?”
The answer is too casual.
I know it the second it leaves my mouth.
Teresa’s brows lift.
Damn it.
I reach for the coffee to give my hand something to do. The movement pulls at my side, and pain flares bright enough that I have to pause before I get the mug all the way up. Teresa watches, expression dry.
“Very subtle,” she says.
“I was shot.”
“Convenient excuse.”
“One of the few benefits.”
She does not smile.
She just keeps looking at me.
Then her gaze flicks once toward the wall.
Caterina’s room is on the other side.
Nothing about Teresa’s face changes enough for most people to read, but I know her. I see the connection forming.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Her eyes come back to mine. “Adrian.”
“Drop it.”
“That means yes.”
“It means drop it.”
Her expression cools. Not anger. Concern, which is worse.
“Please tell me you know what you’re doing.”
The question hits too close to the truth.
I take a sip of coffee to buy half a second. It’s strong. Black.
Perfect.
Then I set it back down.
“I do.”
Teresa says nothing.
“Everything's fine,” I reassure her.
Teresa looks toward the wall again, and her expression softens.
“She had a horrible night.”
“I know.”
“She’s not used to needing anyone.”
“I know that too.”
“She’s probably humiliated.”
My jaw tightens. “She shouldn’t be.”
“No,” Teresa says. “But she will be. You know she will.”
I do.
I knew it the second she backed away from me last night, covering her face like she had committed some unforgivable act instead of kissing a man who had kissed her back.
I knew it when she apologized over and over. I knew it when she left with her spine too straight, pretending the exit was not a retreat.
“She thinks she lost control,” Teresa says quietly. “That will bother her more than…” Her eyes flicked toward me. “Whatever happened.”
I look sharply at her.
“Nothing happened,” I say calmly.
She does not believe me.
I stare at her.
She stares back.
I hate psychologists.
“I am not discussing this with you.”
“I don’t need the details.” She holds up one hand. “In fact, please never give me the details. But you need to be careful.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean with her. Not your rules. Not your job. Her.”
My expression hardens.
“Adrian, she is not fragile,” she says. “But she is raw right now. And if you treat her like she made some shameful mistake, she’ll turn that into armor.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” She reaches for the mug and hands it to me again. “Because she’ll also try to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I expect that.”
“And you?”
“I’ll let her.”
Teresa goes quiet.
I take the mug because fighting her over it is pointless and because it’s damn good coffee.
After a moment, she says, “Is that what you want?”
No.
The answer comes too fast inside my head.
“What I want is irrelevant.”
She shakes her head once; a small motion filled with old exasperation. “That is such a you answer.”
“It’s the correct one.”
“It’s the safest one.”
“Same thing.”
“No,” she says. “It isn’t.”
I look at her then.
She has no idea how dangerous this conversation is getting. Or maybe she does and is doing it anyway because that is what Teresa has always done when she thinks someone is avoiding the truth.
“I’m her protection,” I say. “Not her complication.”
Teresa’s face shifts as that statement seems to land.
“She’s already complicated,” she says softly.
“That’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
Then she sighs and stands.
“You need to rest.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You need to take the medication.”
“No.”
“You need to not get out of bed.”
“That's not going to happen.”
She gives me a look.
I hold it.
Finally, she points at me, one finger raised in a way that looks unfortunately similar to Elena last night.
“If you tear those stitches because you can't rest for one day, I am calling your mother.”
“That threat has lost none of its effectiveness, but it's still not going to happen.” I continue before she can speak. “I'm not going to lie here, in Luca Conti's house, all day. Lounging.”
She scoffs at that. “It's hardly lounging,” Teresa says. “You're recovering from a bullet wound. Not clearing an annoying email.”
“It is annoying.”
“It is a hole in your body.”
“Two holes, technically.”
Her eyes narrow into something dangerous.
I take another sip of coffee because I’ve already lost that round and because antagonizing her is the only entertainment available to me at the moment.
“I need a briefing from my men,” I say. “I need an update from the casino. I need to know what Roberto and Antonio told the police, what Giovanni and Nico found, and whether Luca has narrowed down who had access to the information that put Caterina on that floor last night.”
Teresa’s mouth tightens.
She doesn’t like it.
She also knows I’m right.