Chapter 5 #3
‘Only that there was a patient.’ Her throat tightens. ‘I assumed… I assumed prayers would help.’
‘Well, it did. In the past, church was my favourite place.’ I let my eyes drop to her mouth. Then lower, to the racing pulse pushing against her prim collar. My mouth waters with the need to taste her right there.
Fuck, I might just leave the habit on when I do.
But as I look at her, the hands clutching so tightly to the rosary, a different memory scythes through more pleasant ones. ‘Until it wasn’t.’
The colour that flared high on her cheekbones at my unvarnished stare recedes a little. ‘I’ll pray for you. And then I will leave and you will not stop me. I am not who you think.’
‘You’re exactly who I think,’ I say. ‘And I will stop you. With my teeth if I have to.’
The doctor shoots me a look that says please don’t bite the nun. I ignore him.
‘Let’s play things your way, Sister. Tell me what you remember of your farthest memory,’ I say to her.
That earns me a firm head shake. ‘No, Signore. My memories are private. I don’t know who you are or what rights you think you have to them, but I won’t be giving them to you.’
I make a show of settling back into the bed, even as every excruciatingly painful muscle screams in protest. ‘I guess we’re settling in for a long night then, huh, babe? I hope you don’t have any urgent patients waiting on you, Doctor?’
The doctor makes a face, either scandalised by the way I’m addressing Christ’s bride or because he has no chance of escape.
One minute passes. Three. Five.
Her lips purse and she shoots me an irritated glare before contrition arrives. ‘If you must know, I remember God,’ she says promptly, like a Sunday schoolchild with the right answer. ‘I remember the old convent in Northern Sicily.’
My breath stalls. Northern Sicily. Where my brother Rafa came within shockingly close call of locating her sixteen months ago. She was gone by the time he arrived, the old place burned to the ground. Another chess move by fucking Nightowl? ‘Go on.’
‘After that we relocated to Santa Maria delle Nevi. I continued my studies with the sisters. Work. Prayer. The life I chose.’
‘You remember something before that,’ I grit out. ‘You have to.’ It’s impossible that she lost all memory of her family. Her life in New York.
Me, for fuck’s sake!
Her lips part. Nothing comes out. Terror rolls under her skin.
‘I see shadows of faces, sometimes,’ she manages at last. ‘A woman who might be my mother. A church. Light… and…’ She stops and her eyes dart furtively before she’s shaking her head until the veil trembles. ‘It’s nothing. Fragments. In the grand scheme of my life’s purpose, they don’t matter.’
‘Of course they fucking matter,’ I rumble with deathly softness. ‘They’re a part of you.’
Her eyes flash. ‘I am Benedetta.’
‘And I’m the Pope,’ I say. ‘Benedetta, you don’t even like that name. It doesn’t fit your beautiful mouth.’
She flinches, as if I’ve reached inside and pressed bruises.
The door hisses and the younger doctor slides back in, keeping to the edge of the room like a man circling a sleeping wolf.
He holds up a small vial for the older one to see, eyebrows a question. The older doctor takes it, weighs it, looks at me.
‘Signore,’ he says carefully, ‘I must insist. It’s time for your medication. Your… trip last night took a heavy toll. We need to conduct extensive tests. Then you need rest. The agitation will… could cause a setback.’
I look from him to his hand. ‘Is that medication going to put me to sleep?’
He looks a little nervous. ‘Well, it contains a sedative that—’
‘Then, no.’
‘But… the tests—’
‘Later.’
He sets the vial down on the tray with a deliberate click, as if to remind me it exists. ‘Then at least allow me to examine your incision.’
‘Turn around,’ I tell her, not him.
She startles. ‘What?’
‘Turn around. I don’t want you to see me bleed. You’re squeamish around blood. I don’t think this so-called memory loss erases that too?’ I raise my brow.
And intimate knowledge? It does something to her.
I watch the war in her face as compassion tries to beat back her naked terror of realising I know her.
Intimately. At last she sets her jaw, turns the chair so she’s facing the monitors instead of me.
The older doctor steps close, hand hovering over the bandage, eyes flicking between line and wound.
‘You will need to lie back,’ he murmurs.
‘Do it fast,’ I say. ‘I’m not finished.’
His hands are competent, but the sting’s sharp and the heat of infection hums under the tape. I watch her shoulders tense, the rosary bite into her fingers. She’s listening to every hiss I can’t quite hide.
A long ten minutes later, when the doctor steps away, I say, ‘Turn back.’
She does and God help me, I feel as if I didn’t take a complete breath the whole time her eyes weren’t on me.
I shift my attention to the doctor. ‘Need a few answers. First of all, where the hell am I? The last thing I remember was being in a hospital bed that was not… this place.’
‘You don’t remember waking up last night, gathering the men and leaving here to…’ He pauses, glances at her before returning to me.
‘Of course I remember that. But I didn’t exactly stop for the guided tour, did I? So where the fuck am I and who brought me here?’
He adjusts his glasses, buying himself a second. ‘Istituto San Cristoforo, in Modena. You were transferred here after your accident in the United Kingdom.’
Giada’s breath catches as I frown. ‘How long ago?’
‘Three days,’ he says carefully. ‘You were placed in an induced coma to stabilise swelling in the brain and control the pain from multiple fractures in your ribs and arm. Until now, your vitals have been remarkably strong—’ He hesitates when I stare him down.
‘You’re very fortunate, Signor Salvatore. ’
I grunt. ‘What did I break?’
‘Mostly soft-tissue injuries and burns from the crash. The most serious issues are the severe concussion and your left arm – a clean fracture. It will take six to eight weeks to heal properly.’ He clears his throat when I feel a growl building, adding quickly, ‘Given your robust physical conditioning and regenerative capacity, I expect a full recovery with good physiotherapy.’
I breathe once through my nose, letting that sink in. A fracture, not an ending. I can work with that. ‘Six weeks,’ I say, more to myself than him. ‘Then I’m back in the car.’
The doctor looks faintly appalled. ‘Racing, Signore? You risk compromising—’
‘Racing,’ I repeat. ‘Six weeks.’
His lips thin into a professional line.
Next to me, she’s still perched in that chair, wide-eyed.
The name Salvatore obviously means nothing to her, but the word ‘racing’ sparks looks of muted bewilderment; she looks at me like I’ve just claimed to fly too close to the sun and enjoyed it.
Her fingers tighten around her rosary again, knuckles pale against the dark beads. I can see the questions forming behind her eyes – the ones she’s too careful to ask.
‘Phone,’ I say to the doctor without looking at him. ‘Unlock yours.’
He blanches. ‘My phone? But—’
‘Now.’
He fumbles it out, unlocks with a thumb, holds it like a confession.
‘I’ve just memorised your number. Within the hour, I’ll have the whole hospital’s communications system under surveillance. You’re not going to call anyone about me,’ I tell him. ‘And you’re going to listen and carry out my instructions.’
He nods, because men who live in rooms like this learn quickly what keeps them alive.
‘You don’t tell anyone I’m awake,’ I continue, voice low enough to feel private and sharp enough to cut. ‘No one. Not your colleagues. Not my family. Not God.’
He swallows, then slides a look at Giada. ‘But your brothers have requested an update every six hours. They—’
‘—will be informed that I’m still in a coma. I’m stable and my condition hasn’t changed. And you will do whatever is necessary to keep them from visiting me.’ I let the smile show my teeth. ‘I need time. With her. Without interference.’
The younger doctor glances at the door again, calculating the distance to salvation. I save him the maths.
‘One hundred thousand dollars each, for both of you,’ I say, as if I’m suggesting an aperitivo. ‘One transfer, untraceable and yours by morning.’
They both stare with wide eyes.
‘Or,’ I add, letting the word fall like a blade, ‘a visit from my crew to your families. Which will it be?’
The monitors tick. Somewhere down the corridor, a trolley rattles past like distant thunder. The older doctor looks at her. At the nun in the chair and then at me, the sinner in the bed.
He nods first and the younger follows instantly.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Now get out. And send up coffee.’
He gathers the younger one with a look and they vanish, the door whispering closed.
We’re alone.
Or close enough to it for this kind of sacrilege.
‘Let’s start again,’ I tell her, softer now. ‘What’s your name?’
Her chin rises, stubborn, furious, afraid. ‘Sister Benedetta.’
‘Fine,’ I say, tasting the lie like blood. ‘For tonight.’
I reach out – slow, gentle, inevitable – and touch the edge of her wimple again, a sinner fingering a relic.
‘Come closer, angel,’ I say.