Chapter 5 #2
The door closes behind her. Not quite a slam. But close.
I stare at the ceiling.
The crack running from the corner toward the center.
The lavender smell that's everywhere. In the sheets. In the pillows. In the air itself.
Her.
I close my eyes.
The pain in my side is nothing compared to the pain in my chest.
Marina
I can't sleep.
I've been lying on the couch for three hours. Staring at the ceiling. Counting the cracks in the plaster.
Every creak of the building makes me flinch. Every car that passes on the street below sends my heart racing. Every shadow that moves across the window feels like a threat.
I keep thinking about the blood.
The blood on my hallway floor. The blood on my hands. The blood soaking through the towels I pressed against his wound.
I roll onto my side. Pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
My hand aches. A dull throb that pulses in time with my heartbeat. I must have strained it. Dragging him inside. Holding pressure on the wound. All those hours of gripping and pressing and fighting to keep him alive.
Why did I fight so hard?
The question won't leave me alone.
I could have called 911. Let the paramedics take him. Let the police ask their questions. Let the whole mess become someone else's problem.
But I didn't.
I called Sophia instead.
I called the Sartori family.
I pulled myself right back into the world I spent two years running from.
For him.
I press my face into the couch cushion. Squeeze my eyes shut.
Stop thinking about him.
But I can't.
I can't stop thinking about the way he looked when he collapsed at my door. The way he said my name.
I can't stop thinking about what would have happened if I hadn't opened the door.
He would have died.
Right there. In my hallway. Alone.
And I would have found him in the morning. Cold. Still. Gone.
My stomach turns.
I sit up. Throw the blanket off. Press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
Get it together, Marina.
I need to sleep. The doctor said the next forty-eight hours are critical. I need to be alert. Focused. Ready to handle whatever comes next.
But every time I close my eyes, I see his face.
Pale. Gray. The life draining out of him one heartbeat at a time.
And I see something else too.
The men who shot him.
They're still out there. Somewhere. And if they tracked him to Denver, they might track him here. To my building. To my door.
To me.
I grab my phone from the coffee table.
I scroll to Sophia's number. Hesitate.
She's probably asleep. She should be asleep. It's the middle of the night and she has her own life now. Her own problems. Her own husband who runs a criminal empire.
I shouldn't call.
I shouldn't drag her deeper into this.
But my thumb is already pressing the button.
The phone rings once. Twice.
"Marina."
Sophia's voice is soft. Alert. Not sleepy at all.
Like she was waiting.
"Hey." My voice comes out rough. Scratchy. "I'm sorry. I know it's late."
"It's fine. I wasn't sleeping."
"I just..." I trail off. Swallow hard. "I needed to hear your voice."
Silence on the other end.
Then: "You're scared."
It's not a question.
I don't know how she does that. How she always knows exactly what I'm feeling before I say a word. We've been friends since kindergarten. Maybe that's just what happens when you know someone that long. You learn to read the spaces between their words.
"Yeah." I admit it. No point in lying. "I'm scared."
"Of Dante?"
"No." The answer comes out fast. "Not of him. Of... everything else. The people who shot him. What happens if they find out where he is. What happens if they come here."
"They won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do." Her voice is firm now. Certain. "Lorenzo has three men watching your building. They've been there since the doctor left. No one gets in or out without us knowing."
I blink.
"Three men?"
"At least three. Maybe more. I didn't ask for the exact number."
I should feel violated. Watched. Surveilled.
Instead, I feel something loosen in my chest.
Safe.
I feel safe.
"Marina." Sophia's voice softens. "No one is going to hurt you. I promise. Lorenzo promised. And you know what his promises mean."
I do know.
Lorenzo Sartori doesn't make promises he can't keep.
"Okay." I exhale. Long and slow. "Okay. Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I'm doing it anyway."
A pause.
"Try to get some sleep," she says. "You sound exhausted."
"I am exhausted."
"Then sleep. The men outside will handle everything else. You just focus on keeping Dante alive long enough for us to come get him."
"Goodnight, Soph."
"Goodnight, Marina."
I hang up.
Three men.
At least three men watching my building.
I set my phone back on the coffee table. Lie back down on the couch.
My eyes drift to the bedroom door.
Closed. Silent. He's in there. Sleeping. Healing. Taking up space in my life like he never left.
I close my eyes. Try to slow my breathing. Try to quiet the thoughts racing through my head.
But sleep still won't come.
Because now I'm thinking about work.
I was supposed to be at the nonprofit in four hours. Running the morning art therapy session with the foster kids. Setting up easels. Mixing paints. Helping small hands create something beautiful out of nothing.
I can't go.
I can't leave him alone. Can't leave the apartment. Can't pretend everything is normal when there's a man with a bullet hole in my bedroom.
I reach for my phone again.
Open my email.
Start typing.
Hi Sarah,
I'm not feeling well. Stomach bug, I think. I won't be able to come in today. I'm so sorry for the short notice. I'll keep you updated on how I'm feeling.
Marina
I read it twice. Three times.
I've never lied to Sarah before. Never missed a single day of work. Not once in eighteen months. Not when I had the flu. Not when my hand was cramping so bad I could barely hold a paintbrush. Not when the nightmares kept me up for three days straight.
I was reliable. Dependable. The employee who always showed up.
And now I'm calling in sick because of a man.
A man who was supposed to stay away from me.
I hit send.
The email disappears into the void.
I drop my phone on my chest. Stare at the ceiling.
I hate him.
The thought burns through me. Hot and sharp.
I hate him for coming here.
I hate him for the way my chest ached when he said my name.
I hate him for making me feel anything at all.
One whispered Marina that I can't get out of my head.
It's all he said and he destroyed all the healing I've done so far.
I roll onto my side. Face the back of the couch. Pull the blanket over my head.
A few hours.
Then he's gone.
Then I can go back to pretending none of this ever happened.