Chapter 11
Somewhere West of Orvieto, Italy
Stunned, Cove stared out the cracked windshield at the abandoned stable they’d taken shelter in. Numbly, she watched Achilles walk to the old door and tug it closed—well, as far as the weather-beaten wood allowed. The roof of the stable was missing sections, allowing moonlight inside.
He stood there for a long time, a silent sentry, watching through the sliver caused by age and disrepair, to be sure they were safe.
She recalled the report of the rifles, the chaos of the harvester lights when they exploded. Had both of her father’s workers died? Gunmen had killed people at the villa too…all because these people were trying to get her.
Me. Everyone’s dying because of me.
When she saw Achilles turn from the door, her heart gave a little leap, wondering if there was trouble. However, he wasn’t running. And that raw intensity did not seem to be in high gear as he stalked to her side of the Cruiser. Was everything okay?
He opened the door and thrust his jaw at her. “Let me see your head.”
She blinked. “My head?”
“There’s blood…” He motioned her out of the truck and stepped back to give her room.
Hand going to her head, Cove realized there was a dull ache emanating from the spot. “Was I shot?” With all the chaos and running for their lives, she had forced the pain to her periphery. Especially after having to watch Signori Giordano and Barone defend them—possibly with their very lives!
“Gelato,” Achilles said, gently drawing her out.
Cove slid out and turned so he could see the back of her head. That’s when she spotted the bullet hole in the panel of the Cruiser. She traced it with a finger.
“This might—”
Pain shot through her neck, yanking out a yelp.
“—hurt. Sorry.”
Wincing, she tried not to move too much, but the sensation burned.
“Got it.” He showed her a large piece of glass.
Gaping, she stared at the bloody sliver. “That was in my head?”
He nodded. “Hang tight. Let me grab the first aid kit.” He reached around her into the Cruiser, grabbed Papà’s satchel, and drew out a red hard-sided box.
“Where did you get that?”
“Spotted it in the garage. Figured it’d come in handy.” He opened it, drew out a couple of tubes, and then motioned to her. “Let me apply this to stave off infection.”
She let him work and felt the cool gel applied to the cut.
“Bleeding has stopped—head wounds always gush, so your shirt and hair are a mess, but nothing serious. I could put a bandage on the cut, but I’m not sure it’d stick because of your hair and the odd angle.”
“That sounds like torture, trying to get a bandage out of my hair later.”
He handed her some gauze pads. “Use these as needed.”
She took it, wondering about her papà’s workers. “What if nobody finds those men till morning…?”
He started packing up the kit and satchel. “Did they have families?”
She nodded.
Angling around her, Achilles set the satchel in the Cruiser again. “Do they normally harvest before dawn?”
This time, she shook her head.
“Then I’d guess their families knew they went out, maybe even called local authorities.”
“I feel so bad,” she admitted, heartsick. “They were helping us, and they might have died.”
“Let’s remember their heroism and not presume death,” he said. “We don’t know the ending because we weren’t there.”
“True.” She liked that, the idea of clinging to hope instead of darker possibilities. It made it seem…possible that Signori Giordano and Barone were still alive. That they would go home to their families. Per favore, Dio…
“Hey.” His voice was soft, caring. “You okay?”
The deep ache in her wanted to cry but… “I feel numb.”
“That’s the shock.” Achilles opened the rear passenger door. “Your body protecting itself. Probably should get some sleep.”
Mutely, she climbed into the back but sat there for a long time, staring at nothing in particular. Drained of her fight. From the corner of her eye, she saw Achilles shrug out of the jacket, then haul up his shirt.
Her breath spasmed at the sight of his corded abdomen—not that it was so sculpted but at the wound and red, marred flesh. Alarmed, she pitched herself out of the Cruiser. “You got shot?”
“Some people have all the luck,” he muttered, then eyed her. “Aren’t you supposed to be lying down?”
“I thought I should be sure you do not die.”
With a huffed laugh, he applied antiseptic and hissed. “It’s a through-and-through.” He shrugged, indicating over his shoulder to the exit wound. “I’ll be good.”
“Ma sei matto?” she balked, checking his back and indeed spotting another wound.
He smirked. “No idea what that means, Gelato.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were shot? What if that hit an organ or there’s internal bleeding?”
“Oh, I guarantee there’s internal bleeding,” he snickered, using a bonding gel to seal it closed, then he applied a bandage. His brown eyes lifted to her, then his brow furrowed. “Hey. I’ll be okay. Not my first bullet wound.”
“Well, it’s my first time seeing one.”
“Trust me. It’s okay.”
“This”—she stabbed a hand toward his bloody mess—“is not okay!”
“Gelato, relax. I’ll be fine—I’m not going to die.”
Only when he said that did she realize that had been her exact panic. That he’d die too.
Glancing over his shoulder, he tried to see the other wound. Then he angled and tried to twist to reach it.
“Here.” She took the bond gel from his hand and moved around behind him.
“Cocciuto come un mulo.” Saying he was stubborn as a mule in Italian made her feel better, since he could not understand her, and it let off some frustration.
She shifted to see better. Her mouth went dry at his muscular back.
This time, she let herself appreciate the view.
Respect his effort to keep himself in shape.
She had seen bare backs before—any pool or beach had an abundance.
But they were not…this well-muscled or attached to the most uomo bellissimo she’d ever met.
Swallowing her attraction, she cleaned the wound, added the antiseptic, then the gel.
Don’t think about his warm skin beneath your fingers.
She applied the bandage. “You should have told me you got shot.” Her spiraling attraction to him thwarted the anger meant to be in those words she’d forced out.
“Couldn’t do anything about it.” He peeked over his shoulder. “You done?”
“I could have packed it or something. There.” She straightened and cleaned up the supplies.
“Not while whipping around hard turns.” He sniffed a laugh and turned to face her as he lowered his shirt gingerly. “That would’ve been about like getting stabbed. Repeatedly.”
The mental note about stabbing somehow evoked stress. When he met her gaze, his brown eyes were warm and filled with more of that cavalier attitude… “Cocciuto come un mulo,” she muttered at him, taking too much pleasure that he did not know what she was saying.
His left eye twitched as he considered her. “Why do I have a feeling you didn’t say I was your favorite person?”
A smile threatened, but just as fast, the last vestiges of her courage crumbled.
Trauma catching up with her, she fought the tears stinging her eyes.
“Why is this happening? Why did they take mio papà?” She choked back a sob.
“The reason had to be big for them to come with helicopters and rifles. He is not a bad man! What…is going on? Why are they trying to catch me? Or kill me? What did I do to them?”
He shifted closer. “Gelato.”
“Stop calling me that!”
His expression sobered.
Hunching in on herself, she ducked her head and rubbed her temple. “Sorry. I do not know what is wrong with me.”
“Nothing’s wrong with you,” he said calmly. “You’ve just been through a lot and you’re injured.”
“It is a cut.” She wagged a hand at him. “You have two holes in your body and you are not going to pieces.” No idea how it happened, but the next thing she knew, she was in his arms, crying into his shoulder.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispered, holding her. “We’ll get it figured out.”
“How?” she whined, ashamed of herself for doing it, so she pushed back. “Never mind. I… Sto andando a pezzi.” Unable to look into those perfect eyes and see pity or disappointment, she pulled away and climbed into the Cruiser. “I should rest.”
Achilles closed the door behind her, then walked around to the driver’s side and sat behind the wheel.
Embarrassed at crying like a baby into his shoulder, Cove lay down on the bench seat, hands beneath her head.
Exhausted, scared, and depleted, she was not sure how much more she could take.
But he had taken plenty, had he not? She let her gaze drift to where he sat up front, noticed moonlight tracing the outline of his strong profile. “How do you do this? All alone.”
Silence reigned for a long moment. “I remember what’s at stake.”
That pinched at her heart, made her think of Papà. “Your dad.”
Exhaling, he leaned back against the headrest and folded his arms. “Yeah.”
Hers had only been missing hours, and already she was falling apart worrying that he was dead. “How long have you been looking for him?”
“They declared him dead three years ago.”
She lifted her head. “I thought he was alive.”
“He is,” he ground out, then dragged a hand over his mouth.
As quiet returned in the surprisingly peaceful darkness, he huffed.
“They say he’s not. Gave him the full burial rights at Arlington, presented Mom with a flag, twenty-one gun salute—the works.
” He shook his head, staring out the windshield.
“Never sat right. Small contradictions. No real answers. Facts not lining up.”
“So, you do not believe them.”
“No.”
Her heart tugged at that, feeling a deep connection with him. “Like me with my papà. They say he did these terrible things, but I know Papà.” Vehemence clenched her chest. “He would never do such a thing or be that monster.”
“And you want my help to prove that.”