Chapter 32 Olivia
OLIVIA
Ferris Bueller had it right: Life really does come at you fast. Three minutes ago, I was a doctor in a business meeting. Now, I’m fleeing the scene of a shootout with a known criminal.
As Stefan takes another corner too fast, the G-force presses me into the leather seat. I steal glances at his profile—jaw clenched, eyes hyper-focused on the road, one hand on the wheel while the other taps rapid-fire responses on his phone. He shows no sign of shock or concern.
I, on the other hand, am a wreck.
Stefan must sense that, because without looking at me, he asks, “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I swallow. “You already looked me over.”
His eyes flick to me briefly—enough for me to catch the storm brewing in them—before locking back on the road. “Good.”
But he sets his phone down and puts his hand on my knee once again.
A few high-speed turns later, we pull up screeching in front of a modest brick house with cheerful window boxes overflowing with geraniums. He walks around, opens my door, and offers me his hand.
I take it. His eyes never leave mine as I unfold from the seat. And when he sees my Bambi legs are still wobbling and unsteady, his hand never leaves mine, either.
He keeps hold of me as we shuffle up to the front. He goes for the doorbell, but before he can ring it, it opens.
On the other side is an elderly woman with shrewd eyes identical to his. Her silver hair is twisted in an elegant knot, and she wears a floral apron dusted with flour.
“Another attack, then,” she states with no trace of emotion or surprise.
“Yeah. Tough day at the office.” Stefan presses a quick kiss to her cheek and lets go of me.
I wish he wouldn’t, and part of me wants to ask him to stay. But I don’t, so he disappears deeper into the house without explanation, leaving me standing awkwardly in the doorway.
The woman studies me with unnerving intensity before her face softens into a smile.
“Come, come! You look like you need tea.” Her hands are papery and dotted with liver spots, but they’re strong.
She grabs my wrist right where Stefan let go and ushers me toward the kitchen.
“I was just about to make pirozhki. Do you like cabbage filling? I prefer the meat myself, but Stefushka always says my cabbage ones are better.”
Stefushka?
I’m about to ask who the hell she is when I see the photo of a young Stefan stuck to the refrigerator. He’s every bit as handsome as he is now, but leaner, softer—probably no more than eighteen. He has his arm slung over a younger version of the woman in front of me.
She follows my gaze and sighs happily. “Even big tough men have a soft spot for their babushkas.” Then she turns back to me. “So? Tea?”
I blink. There’s a lot going on right now. To say I’m struggling to process would be a major understatement.
“Tea would be… nice.” I sink into a chair at her kitchen table before I fall over.
The woman—I should really ask her name—busies herself with the kettle. Meanwhile, I look around. The kitchen is warm and lived-in, a stark contrast to Stefan’s sleek, impersonal penthouse.
More family photos line the walls. I catch more glimpses of a young, unguarded Stefan in several of them.
When she slides the tea in front of me, I wrap my hands around the mug and try to ground myself in the warmth.
“Beautiful hands,” she observes. “Long fingers. Good for detailed work, yes? Stefan mentioned you are a doctor. Very impressive.”
He mentioned me? I don’t know what to make of that.
“I… Uh, yes.” My fingertips trace the rim of the cup in endless circles.
“My sister was a nurse, back in the old country. Delivered babies during the worst years. She always said new life finds a way, even in darkness.” She reveals a plate of cookies. “Try these. Special recipe. You can’t say no, so don’t bother.”
I take one. My hands are still trembling, I notice. All that adrenaline and nowhere for it to go, so it’s just bubbling up into boiled anxiety in my veins.
“You have to eat it for it to help you,” she scolds playfully. “Go on then. Have a bite.”
I’d laugh if I could. Since I’m not capable of that particular emotion right now, I take a bite instead. The cookie is soft and warm, but I don’t even taste it.
The old woman continues undeterred. A monologue of grandmotherly things: her garden, tomorrow’s weather, and a television show she’s been watching—all as if I didn’t just dodge death by inches. Like her grandson didn’t dump me in her lap and then disappear to God only knows where.
It feels like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe. Is this real? Am I dreaming?
“Does this happen a lot?” I finally blurt. “Because Stefan seems alarmingly calm about it all.”
“Calm?” She laughs outright. “That man is more on edge than I’ve ever seen him. He’s been that way ever since he met you.”
My heart stutters. I don’t have time to unpack that statement, though, because just then, Stefan returns, his body filling the tiny doorway.
It’s beyond bizarre that I feel myself unclench an extra degree now that he’s back. He’s the cause of all the danger in my life. How on earth does my body seem to think he’s the solution for it, too?
“Has anyone been by, Babushka? Have you noticed anything unusual?” His stance is rigid, eyes never settling in one spot for long.
“Yes, Stefushka, I invited the entire Italian mob for tea yesterday,” she replies dryly. “We discussed your security protocols over blini. Nice fellows.”
Stefan doesn’t smile. “This isn’t a joke.”
“And I’m not a child.” Her gaze catches on the dark stain spreading across his shirt. She tips her chin towards the wound. “You should be more worried about yourself. Get to the upstairs bathroom. I have a first aid kit under the sink. Go, go. Both of you.”
She shoos us out. I’m still in automaton mode, so I follow unthinkingly.
The upstairs hallway is narrow, with faded wallpaper and creaking floorboards.
Stefan leads us to a small bathroom at the end of the corridor.
When he flicks on the light, I’m struck by the banal normalcy of it—blue towels, a shower curtain with sailboats, a porcelain soap dish shaped like a seashell.
Then he turns to face me and the bloodstain spreading across his shirt actually focuses my thoughts for the first time all morning.
This I can handle.
“Sit,” I instruct, doctor mode activating.
He hesitates. For a man who radiates control, surrendering to my care seems to cost him something.
“I’ve had worse,” he rumbles, but obediently perches on the edge of the bathtub.
I find the first aid kit exactly where his grandmother said it would be. The contents tell their own story—surgical-grade sutures, hemostatic gauze, injectable antibiotics.
This isn’t a kit assembled for little boys who’ve scraped their knees.
This is a kit for people who expect violence.
“Take off your shirt.”
His lips quirk in a half-smile. “Most people would buy me dinner first.”
“I’ve already seen you naked,” I retort, then flush at the memory. “Just… please. I really do not have the mental capacity to banter with you at the moment.”
For a second, I think he’ll give me a hard time, which is the last thing on earth I’m capable of handling right now. But in the end, he complies.
He undoes the buttons and shrugs out of his shirt, casting it aside. He’s wearing a white tank top underneath, and as I watch, he grips the bottom hem with both hands and peels it over his head. It’s so effortlessly masculine, so Versace cologne commercial, that I almost forget why we’re here.
… until I see the wound.
Then I remember.
The bullet grazed his shoulder, leaving behind a three-inch furrow of angry, torn flesh. That’s the worst of it, but the rest isn’t much better.
My breath catches at the sight of his torso. More scars than there are stars in the sky. Knife wounds. Bullet marks. Burns.
With a nervous gulp, I wet a clean cloth and begin cleaning the wound. I’m doing my best to ignore the heat of his skin, the rattle of his breathing, the laser of his eyes watching me work, but it’s hard.
I’ve treated hundreds of patients, seen countless bodies, but never has my pulse raced like this while disinfecting a wound.
“You need stitches,” I say.
“Then stitch it.”
“It’ll hurt.”
He chuckles softly and nudges the first aid kit into my hands. “I assure you I’ve had worse.”
Okay, guess we’re doing this.
I set the bloody towel down and take the kit instead. It’s hard to thread the needle with trembling hands, but I make do.
Stefan offers no help and says nothing. That’s for the best, honestly. If he touches me voluntarily, I’ll either combust, melt, or scream, and none of that is helpful right now.
But as I position the needle against his flesh, a sudden thought flashes through my mind—what if the bullet had been two inches to the right?
What if I were trying to stop arterial bleeding instead of closing a graze?
The thought of him bleeding out, of those ice-blue eyes going dim, hits me like a runaway train.
I have to bite back a sob that rises from nowhere.
Only then does he touch me. Stefan’s hand wraps around my wrist, steadying me even though I’m supposed to be helping him.
“Breathe, Olivia.”
I look away to hide my face. The tiny bathroom is warm from our combined body heat and the hot water from the sink tap is fogging the mirror. All the lines of the walls are blurred.
We could be anywhere.
We pretty much are.
Slowly, he relinquishes his grip on me. I miss his touch when it’s gone.
But there’s work to be done. I nod and try again. Disassociate. Focus. Do the job and nothing else.
So I do. One inch of thread at a time, I do what I was trained from the womb to do. When I tie off the final stitch, I let my fingers fall into my lap and sink to a seat on the edge of the tub. My eyes stay downcast, though even here, I can see how our knees are almost touching.
“Thank you,” I mumble. “For protecting me.”
“Is that all your life is worth to you? A ‘thank you’?”
I look into his eyes—and freeze.
Because there’s something there I’ve only seen once before—right when he was about to enter me and change everything for good.
Like then, I think this is another of those life-or-death moments. Maybe the life-or-death moment. The edge of the diving board.
I’m standing on the precipice of something, tempted to dive headfirst into it. Into him. God only knows what’ll become of me if I do.
We’re so close. Knees kissing, heat intertwining, breath warm and fragrant between us. He’s half-naked already.
If he leaned closer, or if I did, then we’d— then I’d— then…
“Stefan, I—” My voice catches. I clear my throat and try again, pulling my hand away. “The bandage needs to stay dry for twenty-four hours. Change it tomorrow morning and apply the antibiotic ointment in the kit.”
I lurch to my feet and grab the doorknob, desperate for escape. But it doesn’t turn the way I expected it to, and I struggle, I yank, I twist and rattle, but it won’t let me out, won’t let me run, won’t let me—
“Olivia.” The way he says my name stops me in my tracks. “Next time, I may not be there.”
I stop. The inhale I draw in hurts, like it’s scraping my throat raw on the way down into my lungs. “Right,” I say in a hollow croak. “Then I guess I’d better learn to shoot better.”
It’s supposed to be a joke.
It sounds more like my last will and testament.
I don’t wait for his response, though. I just wrench the door free and flee.
My feet carry me down the stairs too quickly. I nearly stumble and break my neck on the last step. In the kitchen, his grandmother looks up from her dough, eyes knowing, but she asks no questions as I gulp down a glass of water with shaking hands.
When it’s done, I refill it and drain it again. Then I press my palms against the cool marble counter, eyes closed trying to ground myself in the moment, in the normalcy of this warm kitchen.
If I can, I want to forget what just happened up there. I want to forget what I did. How close I came to jumping.
Because I know that, when I do—not if, but when—there will be no coming back.