Chapter 11 #2
"I guess what I really want to say is this.
" She looks away, thinking, then back to me, and her gaze locks mine in place; I can no more look away now than I could breathe underwater.
"You're sweet. You're kind. You're thoughtful and understanding.
You're also strong and sexy. You're fierce when you need to be.
I mean, god, Killy, you shot three men without blinking. "
"I puked after," I point out.
"Be weirder if you hadn't," she says, breezily, as if it doesn't even matter either way.
"You kiss me like there might not be a tomorrow.
You look at me like I'm the only woman in the world.
" Her voice shakes a little. "And you touch me like you can't get enough.
You're obsessed with my ass, the part of me that I'm most insecure about.
You just gave me the best orgasms of my life.
And you…I felt so secure and safe with you that I…
I couldn't help but be myself. And you…" She blinks hard, tears trickling.
"You didn't hesitate, didn't have to think about it.
You accepted it." She talks over me before I can speak.
"Killian, if you can be sweet and sensitive and yet be confident enough in yourself to let me be myself, then I don't know what else I could ever ask for.
You aren't threatened by my assertiveness.
But you also aren't some fainting daisy. You're tough."
"You make me sound like the complete package," I say, laughing.
She doesn't laugh. "I mean, you kind of are." She leans back against me at an angle, her back to my chest. I sling my arm over her shoulder and down her chest, between her breasts.
"The fact that you're strong enough to trust me after the way guys have treated you, Story…I hope you know I don't take that for granted."
"I'm hopeful, Killy," She murmurs, sounding drowsy.
"I grew up watching Mom and Dad and how they love each other.
Mom is tough and fierce and kind of a wild woman, although since she's quiet, it's easy to miss.
Dad has always loved her for exactly who she is.
He gives her space to be herself. He's not threatened by her strength.
He's…he loves her for it. And Dad isn't your typical super macho manly man, Killy.
You know him well enough to know that. I saw their love.
And I've…I've always wanted that for myself.
I see a lot of Dad in you, actually, in the best possible way. " She yawns into her hand.
"There isn't much higher of a compliment you could give me than to say I'm anything like Anselm See."
"You're the best parts of your mother and father, Killian."
"Except that. That’s the highest compliment." I nuzzle her temple, kiss her hair.
I let my eyes close, let them grow heavy. Her weight against my chest is warm and comforting, and the soft sigh of her breathing as she dozes off is the sweetest music—that she trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms at all, let alone here, now…it's everything.
I doze off, too, then.
A blaring, digital din jolts me out of sleep, a 16-bit version of a jaunty tune: a decades-old ringtone on a decades-old burner phone.
I wrench my eyes open—daylight streams through the window, and for a second, I panic that we've missed the ferry, but a glance at the range clock reading 9:47 reassures me that we still have time.
The ringtone starts up again—the burner phone of Enzo's that we confiscated is on the coffee table, a long string of numbers flashing on the screen.
I reach for it, but the slam of the bedroom door swinging open and crashing violently into the wall stops me. Enzo comes tripping and stumbling out of the bedroom, dancing into his jeans and cursing in Italian.
"Do not answer that!" he shouts. I toss him the phone, and he catches it, glances at the screen, and winces at what he sees. "Merda, merda, merda. Okay, okay."
"Who is it?" I ask.
"Who do you think?" he snaps, and then flips it open and stabs the answer button; he answers in rapid Italian, listens, gives a series of unh-huhs and unh-unhs.
Listens again. "No, is not necessary. I know.
They get away, but—how am I to know who shooted them?
No, I know. But—alright, okay. Yes. Today?
Is not possible!" He listens again, and the blood drains out of his face.
"I understand. No, that is really not required.
I will find them. I will! No, please. I will do as you say.
Do not send—" he pulls the phone away and looks at the screen for a moment, and then very carefully closes the clamshell device, as if to restrain himself from hurling it across the room or crushing it in his hand. “Cazzo di merda.”
Story is awake and sitting up, braiding her hair behind her head while eying Enzo. "What? Who was that?"
"It was Pugli's man. Salvatore. His numero due. He knows you escaped, and he knows the boating men are dead. He also knows I am here. How, I do not know. Probably this phone is having a…cazzo…tracciatore GPS."
"A GPS tracker?" I guess.
He nods, points at me. "Sì, this thing. To know where am I. I should know better. Pugli, he does not take chances."
"But he thinks we got away?" Story asks. "He doesn't suspect the truth?"
"That I am helping you? No, no. I think no. Or already my daughter would be killed."
"So…" I prompt. "What now? The ferry to Rome doesn't leave for three hours yet."