Chapter 4 #2
"No. It's not." I push off the wall. Walk to my kitchen. Look at the row of medical supplies on my counter. "But it's what's happening. And I can either fall apart about it, or I can deal with it."
"You shouldn't have to deal with it."
"Maybe not." I pick up one of the pill bottles. Read the label without really seeing it. "But there's a man in my bedroom who needs care. And I'm the only one here to give it."
"Marina—"
"That's what people do, Sophia." I set the bottle down. "They take care of each other. Even when it's hard. Even when they don't want to. Even when the person who needs help is someone who—"
I stop.
Someone who what?
I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"I'll be fine," I say instead. "Forty-eight hours. Then you can send whoever you want to pick him up."
Sophia doesn't respond.
I hear her breathing. Uneven. Shaky.
"Soph?"
A sound comes through the phone. Small. Broken.
She's crying.
"I'm sorry." Her voice cracks. "Marina, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. If I hadn't—if I'd just kept you away from all of this—"
"Stop."
"You got shot because of me. Because of my family. And now this—now he's there and you have to take care of him and it's not fair. None of it is fair."
"Sophia. Stop. You didn't shoot me." The words come out firm. Final. "Daniil shot me. And Dante—" I pause. Swallow. "Dante carried me out. Remember? He got me to the hospital. He stayed."
Silence.
I can hear her trying to control her breathing. Trying to pull herself together.
"I'm sorry," she says again. Quieter this time.
"I know."
"I love you. You know that, right? You're my best friend. You've always been my best friend. And I hate that my life keeps hurting you."
My throat tightens.
"I love you too, Soph."
"If you need anything—anything at all—you call me. Day or night. I don't care what time it is."
"I will."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
She sniffles. Takes a breath.
"Forty-eight hours," she says. "Then we'll get him out of there."
"Forty-eight hours."
"And Marina?"
"Yeah?"
A pause. When she speaks again, her voice is strange. Careful.
"Be careful with him."
I don't know what that means.
I don't ask.
"I'll call you tomorrow," I say.
"Okay."
"Goodnight, Sophia."
"Goodnight."
The line goes dead.
I set my phone on the kitchen counter.
Stand there for a moment. Staring at nothing.
I walk back to the bedroom.
I stop in the doorway.
He's still there.
Of course he's still there. Where else would he be?
But some part of me expected him to be gone. Expected to walk in and find an empty bed, bloody sheets, and nothing else. Like he was never here at all. Like the last few hours were just another nightmare.
I grab the chair from my small desk. Drag it across the floor. Position it at the foot of the bed.
Sit down.
And look at him.
Dante Castellani.
His skin has that waxy quality that comes from trauma. From the body fighting to keep itself alive.
But underneath that—underneath the pallor and the sweat and the bandages—he's still him.
Still impossibly handsome. The kind of face that belongs on magazine covers or movie screens. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jaw. Dark hair that's longer than it was two years ago, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger. Almost vulnerable.
Almost.
His hands rest at his sides. Large hands. Scarred knuckles. I remember those hands. Remember the way they looked wrapped around a gun.
Remember the way they looked folded in his lap while he sat beside my hospital bed.
I push that thought away.
Focus on the details instead.
He's bigger than I remember. Broader through the shoulders. More muscle packed onto his frame. Like he's been training. Preparing for something.
The bandage on his side is white. Clean. Dr. Marchetti did good work. But I can see the edges of other scars peeking out from beneath it. Old wounds. Healed over.
How many times has he been shot?
How many times has he almost died?
How many times has he shown up bleeding on someone's doorstep?
I don't want to know the answers.
I don't want to know anything about him.
I just want him gone.
Forty-eight hours.
I can survive forty-eight hours.
I've survived worse.
My right hand cramps. I flex it automatically. Work the fingers. Press my thumb into the palm the way the physical therapist taught me.
The hand that doesn't work right anymore.
Because of his world.
Because of—
I stop.
Something cold settles in my stomach.
How did he know where I live?
The question hits me like a slap. Sharp. Sudden. Obvious in a way that makes me feel stupid for not thinking of it sooner.
I moved to Denver back then. New city. New apartment. New life. I didn't tell anyone from Chicago where I was going. Didn't post about it on social media. Didn't leave a forwarding address.
I disappeared.
On purpose.
Because I wanted to get away from that world. From those people. From everything that happened.
Sophia knows where I live. Of course she does. She's my best friend. She's been here.
But Sophia promised.
She promised she wouldn't tell anyone. Not Lorenzo. Not the family. Not anyone connected to that life.
And I believe her.
Sophia doesn't break promises. Not to me. Not ever.
So how the fuck did Dante end up at my door?
I stare at him.
At his unconscious face. His closed eyes. His slightly parted lips.
He knew.
He knew exactly where to find me.
Not just the city. Not just the neighborhood. My apartment. My door. Four flights up in a building with no elevator and no doorman and nothing to distinguish it from a hundred other buildings in Capitol Hill.
He came straight here.
Bleeding. Dying. With a bullet in his side and God knows how many other options.
He came to me.
How?
My hands curl into fists.
The anger I couldn't find earlier? It's here now. Rising up from somewhere deep. Hot and sharp and righteous.
He's been watching me.
The realization lands like a punch to the gut.
That's the only explanation. The only way he could have known.
The whole time, he knew exactly where I was.
The whole time, he could have shown up at my door.
He just chose not to.
Until now.
Until he needed something.
I want to scream.
I want to shake him awake and demand answers.
I want to throw him out of my apartment, bullet wound and all, and let him bleed out in the hallway.
But I can't do any of those things.
Because despite everything I'm not the kind of person who lets someone die.
So I sit.
And I wait.
And I plan exactly what I'm going to say when he wakes up.
He better have a damn good explanation.
Because if he doesn't, I'm going to kill him myself.
A sound breaks the silence.
Low. Rough. Barely audible.
I freeze.
He's moving. Just slightly. His head turning on the pillow. His brow furrowing like he's fighting something. A dream. A memory. Pain.
His lips part.
Another sound. Clearer this time.
A word.
My name.
"Marina."
It comes out broken. Desperate. Like a prayer or a plea or something in between.
"Marina."
He says it again. Still unconscious. Still trapped in whatever darkness is pulling at him.
But he's saying my name.
What the fuck?