37. The safe house
MICHELA
37
Once my adrenaline wore off, I must’ve crashed and napped, because the engine shutting off jars me awake. Corrado’s already walking up to the house. I peer out the window, and since it’s the dead of night, I can’t see much besides the outline of a large roof limned in moonlight. I follow Corrado inside.
He turns on the lights.
It’s a Georgian-style home dominated by neoclassical designs reminiscent of Greek and Roman styles complete with cornices on the ceilings, walls, and doorways.
Corrado passes between the columns, and I trail behind him, stepping almost immediately into the living area filled with black and off-white furniture. A few beige touches, mainly the picture frames on the walls and subtle vintage lighting that comes on when Corrado finds the switches, warms up the space.
The kitchen is lovely, mostly black, matching the living space. Corrado moves the knife holder on the counter from the corner to the center, then props his phone against it. He must’ve dialed, because a man’s voice comes on the line.
“Hello,” the man says.
Corrado rips off his jacket and shirt, and that’s when I see it. A hole in his side.
When I move toward him, he glares, and I stop on the other side of the kitchen bar.
“Is it serious?” he asks the man on the line. I presume the camera is open since Corrado is turning around with his arms held out, his expression turned into a scowl. “Motherfucker!” Corrado shouts. It jolts me wide awake, and I step back.
He slams his palms on the marble. “I want them all…” He glances at me and shakes his head, pressing his lips tightly together, clearly stopping whatever order he was about to bark at the man. He won’t talk in front of me.
He doesn’t trust you.
“I won’t tell a soul,” I whisper.
“Who is with you?” the man asks.
“My wife.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“I am, and Dom Jr. tried to use my wife as a shield against the cartel he’s been robbing for years. How long till you get here?”
“I’m on the first flight out.”
“Can I send you a jet?”
A pause, then: “No.”
“Where are you?”
“Not far.”
“Where?” Corrado repeats, sounding agitated.
“I said not far.”
Corrado narrows his eyes. “Answer me.”
“I will when I see you face-to-face.”
A glance at me tells me the man doesn’t trust me either, and that’s why he won’t answer.
“In the meantime, am I going to bleed to death?” Corrado asks.
“It’s a flesh wound. There’s a medical kit in the kitchen and a few units of crossmatched blood in the fridge in case you need them. The security system password is Twatco, spelled in numbers. I’ll bring breakfast. Wife, do you like blueberry muffins?”
“I do.”
Corrado glares at the screen. “She does.”
“See you in the morning.”
They hang up, and Corrado searches the cupboards for the kit.
“Who was that?”
“His name is Dragomir. Drago for short.”
“Is he a friend of yours or…”
“Employee and friend.” Corrado’s leashed violence warns me off approaching him. He’s a wounded beast, and I walk slowly into his territory, which is currently the kitchen.
“Can I help you find anything?” I ask.
“He said the first aid kit is in here somewhere.”
I search the kitchen and find the kit on the upper shelf of the top cupboard. I rise onto my toes and stretch out my arm, until Corrado presses his front to my back, his hand on my hip. With a grunt, he grabs the red bag, then lingers behind me.
“You’re safe here,” he whispers in my ear.
“I know.” I turn so I’m facing him. “I know I’m safe because you’re with me.” I go on tiptoes to kiss him, but he moves away.
He slams the kit onto the bar. Corrado rummages inside. He pulls out a bunch of supplies. Disinfectant, gauze, a big needle.
“I’ll close the front, but I need you to do the back.” He pours disinfectant over the bleeding wound and hisses at the pain I imagine it caused. He snarls as he rubs iodine on it, puts on the gloves, and jabs a needle into a bottle of clear liquid.
“Local anesthetic,” he explains before jabbing it into his side.
I wince, but Corrado doesn’t.
I don’t know if I can watch him stitch himself without throwing up, let alone close the bullet’s exit wound, but I must, or Corrado will bleed out. The man mentioned units of blood in case Corrado needs them. I wouldn’t know how to administer blood if he passes out. In which case, he might die on me. So I better pussy up and gulp down the bile rising from my belly.
Swallowing, I search the cupboards for a bowl. I grab one, just in case.
“What’s that for?” Corrado asks.
“In case I want to throw up.”
“The bathroom’s behind the kitchen.”
“Thanks.”
“Get on your knees.”
“Hm?”
“On your knees, Michela, so you can watch closely and learn.”
“Right.” I kneel and look up at Corrado, who smirks. “That’s a sight for my sore eyes,” he says before he threads the needle through his flesh. He’s focused on what he’s doing, his mouth slightly open, his tongue peeking between his lips. It’s like he feels no pain, but I’m sure he does.
If it were me, I’d be screaming like a colicky baby.
“Corrado?”
“Find a pair of gloves and put them on.”
I do as asked. “Corrado?”
“Mmhm?” He snips the thread before he hands me the needle, then turns his back to me. I scoot closer and take the needle from him, my hands shaking.
“Clean it and close it. That’s it.”
He makes it sound easy. But cleaning an open wound, then closing it is anything but. Besides, my hands won’t stop shaking, and once I barely clean the gaping hole but before I can pierce his skin with the giant needle, I start sweating, the nausea I’ve been keeping at bay rising in my belly.
“I can’t do this.”
“You can and you must. Hurry up. I’m getting dizzy.”
Panicked that he’ll collapse, I stab him with the needle and see it pierce his flesh.
“Maybe use the anesthetic,” he says.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. First time I heard you curse.”
“It comes and goes in times of stress.”
“Are you worried about me?”
The nonchalant tone makes me look up at him. His hazel-green eyes burn with curiosity and something else. Vulnerability. He’s wounded, and he wonders if I care, and he’s asking me directly. “Yes and no,” I tell him honestly.
“Which is it?”
“Both. I’m worried you’ll faint and you’ve lost too much blood. And yet, I’m sure you’ll survive.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because you’re…you.”
Corrado nods. “That’s fair. I won’t faint if you hurry up and close the wound so I can go to bed.”
“About that,” I say as I pull the needle through his flesh. Corrado did it seven times, so seven stitches, and I’m counting mine.
“About what?” he prompts.
“If you’re unconscious, is there someone I should call?”
He pauses before answering, “I’ll be fine.”
“Ah, my brother said that too. He said it with such conviction that I believed him, and then one day, everything went wrong.”
“He has a parole hearing coming up, no?” Corrado asks.
I nod. “How do you know about that?”
“Your mother told me.”
“When?”
“When I last spoke with her.”
Three more stitches to go. “When was that?”
“Yesterday.”
I groan. “How come you talk to her more than I do?”
“Because she said you call her all the time and bother her while she plays backgammon, whereas I wait for her to call me.”
“How much have you told her?”
“She knows we’re married.”
On the last stitch, I pull the thread a little harder than I should, and when he doesn’t react, I tug for good measure. Corrado’s not bothered (which is good, if annoying). I snip off the thread and wash my hands. “You should’ve let me talk to her first.”
“She asked me what my intentions are toward you.”
“You could’ve said you’re my boyfriend.”
“I could’ve.”
I wipe my hands on the towel. “Now she’ll tell my brother, and my brother will ask around, and the first thing he’ll find out is that you are wealthy and dangerous. He’ll find out you hang out with mobsters. Then he’ll call me and give me a rundown of how he doesn’t want me to end up like Mom. Pregnant in a ditch somewhere. When I tell him I won’t, he’ll ask me to divorce you because you’re bad for me. The worst, as you’ve said already.”
Corrado shrugs. “People have opinions. Nothing new there.”
“His opinion is important to me.”
He rips the gauze package and hands it to me so I can cover the exit wound.
Once done, I cross my arms over my chest, mad at him for not allowing me to speak with my mother before he intervened.
He jerks his head. “We’re going to bed. Come on.”
I huff. “For the record, I’m upset with how you delivered the news of our fakerriage to my mom.”
“Fakerriage,” Corrado repeats, sounding amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?” We cross the living space and enter a small hallway that ends with an office. “Wrong room,” he says.
“You’ve never been here before?”
“First time.”
“When I almost threw up, you said the bathroom was behind the kitchen. How did you know?”
“It made sense it would be there.” Corrado walks behind the kitchen and past the small bathroom into another hallway, this one unlit. With my eyes still adjusting, I trace my fingers over the wall, seeking a light switch, but instead, I feel a door. “There’s a door here.”
Corrado lets go of my hand. “That’s the spare bedroom. The master is at the end.”
“Makes sense,” I say, and twist the handle, then pause and close my eyes. “Corrado.”
“Hm?”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
From inside the master bedroom, Corrado flips on the nightlights. He starts undressing. Shoes, socks, pants, underwear.
“Well?” he says.
I think that’s the invitation I’m waiting for and as good as I’ll get from my emotionally twisted husband.
I stand on the other end of the bed.
“You better have worn panties under that little dress,” he says.
“I did.”
From the dresser, he pulls out clean underwear and slips them on. He picks out a white cotton T-shirt and tosses it to me, then gets into bed, lies on his back, and puts his hands behind his head, elbows spread.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Then get in bed.”
I undress and think about sleeping in my bra and underwear, but Corrado’s looking at me with heat in his eyes. I unhook my bra and release my breasts, then clasp my hands in front of me. My face burns with how he’s undressing me with his eyes.
I slip out of my panties too, and stand there, letting him look as long as he wants.
“Angels really are perfect,” he says.
“Thank you.” I put on the T-shirt and get into bed with him. It’s been a little over a month since we signed our marriage agreement, and we’ve been intimate only once and haven’t slept together yet. The realization that we could, that we’re in bed together, kicks my heart into a sprint. Wide awake, I side-eye him.
He’s lying on his side, a smirk on his handsome face. “Turn on your side,” he murmurs.
I do as asked, and Corrado grabs my hips and yanks me to him. The heat of his body comforts me, and when his arms come around me, I exhale so loudly that it feels like I’ve finally arrived. Where, I have no idea, but my soul is content beyond words.
“We are a fit,” he says.
That describes how I feel, but I don’t comment.
“Good night, Corrado.”
“Good night, Michela.”