Chapter 7 STEPHANO #2
"I’m out in two." She lifts the OJ, drinks it as if it insulted her.
"Take your time," I say. "I don’t have a fresh lead on Nico yet."
Her eyes lift. "Do you have anything?"
"Pieces." I leave it there. "You?"
She shakes her head once. "No. But my contacts are working on it."
I let the word sit for a moment before I go fishing, "Contacts. For an any odd job girl."
"Breadth of portfolio," she says. "Gig economy."
"Uh-huh."
We look at each other and let the static climb the walls. The heart monitor keeps a steady, bored rhythm. Outside, a cart squeaks by like it needs mercy.
She flips the blanket back. "Turn around."
"For what?"
"So I can put on the pajamas." She nods at the bag. "If I’m going to play wife, I should at least look like someone bought me soft things."
"Someone did."
"Then be a gentleman and avert your eyes," she repeats, and plucks the red thong from the bag again, letting it dangle in the air between us like a dare. "Or don’t. Dealer’s choice."
I lean back. "Bathroom’s there."
She slides off the bed with a wince she doesn’t want me to see, gathers the PJs and the thong, and moves like a woman whose spine is a contract, IV pole rolling next to her like a silent sentinel. The door clicks. Water runs; a hanger rattles.
Her phone is in the dip of the blanket, unlocked; the screen is still glowing with a half-written message full of nothing.
I don’t look at the text. I pick up the phone and the cable I brought, the one Dre built that looks like it was born in an Apple box but isn’t.
Thumb-sized brick inline on the cord: his ghost. If a device is unlocked and recently trusted, it performs a ghost handshake, seeds a pairing key, and starts a backup to any chosen phone, in this case, mine.
No prompts. No drama. It hums in your palm like a cat that bites.
I plug it in. The brick warms. Tiny LED: one blink, then a steady, regular charging light. On my watch, a silent banner crawls up from Dre: PAIR OK // SNAPSHOT 3% // MONITOR DROPPED. Good boy.
The bathroom door cracks. "I forgot—" her voice is smokey and makes me think of Sunday mornings in bed—with her.
I don’t miss a beat. I lift the phone without looking away from her and hold it out, indicating that I inserted the charger.
"Your phone," I say, while my thumb taps the side of the brick to keep the handshake live.
The pajama top hangs open at her throat, exposing a delicate neck that I would love to wrap my hands around.
I can almost feel her pulse underneath my fingertips.
See her jade green eyes half closed in ecstasy, curtained by those dark lashes.
The red thong is looped over her finger like a question mark.
If she really forgot her phone, my name is Henry. She's testing me.
She pads closer, bare feet whispering over hospital tile. Her toes are painted a soft pink; the polish is chipped at the edges, like she hasn’t had time for something she usually takes pride in. It makes me wonder what’s been keeping her so busy… and why I want to know.
She takes the phone with her left hand, eyes on my face, not the cable. "I forgot the password to the Wi-Fi," she lies politely. "Nurses guard it like state secrets."
"Use my hotspot." I nod at the bag. There’s a hotspot in there— she knows I know she knows that.
The air between us hums with the same electricity crawling through the download bar. 18%… 27%…
She angles her body, trying to slip out of the light, but I keep my hand on the phone, an anchor that keeps her right here with me. Her brows rise in a quiet, loaded question. The thong hangs from her fingers like a dare.
"You seem to have taken a liking to those," I murmur, letting my gaze drop just long enough to make her breath catch.
Her gaze flicks down to the scrap of red lace still looped over her finger, then back to me. The corner of her mouth tilts, half dare, half diagnosis.
"I have good taste," I say, easily. My thumb presses the brick again, making sure the handshake doesn’t drop. 31% … 36% …
She leans one shoulder against the wall, bare legs half-lit by the window, all warm, creamy softness against cold tile. "Good taste or bad impulse?"
"Sometimes they’re the same thing."
"Hmm." She hums a sound of disbelief that runs down my spine like warm oil. Her fingers trace the lace across her palm like she’s petting a secret. The lazy drag of her fingers shouldn’t get to me, but it does; heat coils low and sharp enough to cut through my focus. I can feel my pulse in stupid places.
She tilts her head, her bare legs catching the light just enough to make it hard to remember the code streaming across my screen. Hard to remember anything.
"You buy these for all your convalescing wives?"
"First one." I let the pause hang long enough that she feels it. "They don’t usually survive the audition."
That earns me a real smile, sharp and amused. It lands harder than it should, right in the center of my chest, distracting in a way I don’t have time for.
"And I passed mine?" she asks, voice low and velvet-soft, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
"Barely," I rasp. "You bleed well."
She laughs—low, rough—and my body reacts before my brain catches up. The monitor jumps one bar like it’s eavesdropping.
43%… 47%…
I force my eyes back to the screen, force my head to clear. I’m Stephano Conti. I can think through anything.
But fuck if she isn’t making it harder than it should be. Speaking of harder. My cock stands to attention at the sight of her.
"Tell me, husband," she says, twisting the thong once around her finger, "did you choose red for passion or camouflage?"
"Depends on what you plan to stain it with." I keep my poker face up while her eyes scrutinize me, and her breath catches—a small, involuntary sound she covers with a slow exhale. The air between us feels electric enough to power the machines.
"You’re dangerous when you flirt," she admits.
"I don’t flirt," I answer, steady. "I test for weak spots."
"Have you found mine?"
I meet her eyes, and for half a second, we’re exactly what we’re pretending to be, married, locked in some private language no one else would understand.
The ghost buzzes again: 61% … 72% … almost there.
"Not yet, unless you want to tell me, Zhena?" My voice sounds hoarse even to me.
"Men who say that word like they mean it," she fires back.
"Then I’ll save it for when I do."
"Careful," she says, smile turning small and dangerous. "Promises are expensive."
"I can afford one."
81% … 89% …
She studies me for a heartbeat, then finally, finally steps back. "You win this round," she says, slipping the thong into her pajama pocket.
"I always do." She has no idea.
The haptic hum vibrates once more against my wrist: 100% // CLONE COMPLETE.
I make a show of unplugging the phone and then release it to her, letting her take it. She cradles it against her palm, eyes still on mine.
"Wi-Fi password?" she asks, sweet and knowing.
"Tempesta42."
Her glance flicks up, sharp. "Storm?"
"It’s the season for it."
She turns away, and I let my breath out slowly. The ghost cools in my hand like a finished sin.
"Two days," she reminds me, returning to the door
"If you don’t bleed on my schedule." I grin at her.
"I only bleed on my own," she replies, and her hand reaches for the handle. "If you hear something on Nico, you wake me."
"I will."
"Even if it’s three a.m."
"I’m not the one who sleeps."
She glances at the bag, at the soft T-shirt peeking out, at the expensive nothings I bought to make a lie look married. "You’re very thorough for a man who doesn’t care."
"I care about outcomes," I correct her.
"And edges," she adds, and the way she says it makes the room warmer by a degree I refuse to acknowledge.
I roll up the charger cord and place it on the tray by the side of her bed.
"What?" she asks.
"Nothing." I pick up the lotion and read the label. "I hope you like mango?"
"I hate being still." She lifts her chin. "You?"
"I hate being surprised," I hold her gaze.
"Then you’re going to hate me," she quips lightly.
The door hisses; one of my men passes the glass with a coffee he doesn’t drink. She tracks him in the reflection, looks at me, then her phone. "You don’t trust me."
"I like accurate statements," I say. "Trust is a forecast."
"And your forecast?"
"Storms," the words come easily. "Localized. High winds."
She smiles into her cup. "Tempesta."
The word hits center mass. I don’t move. "Go take your shower," I tell her, because I can’t say what the word actually does to me. "You look like a variable I didn’t account for."
"And yet here you are, Marito." She arches a well-sculpted eyebrow in challenge.
The Italian word lands easily in her mouth. Wife, husband. Zhena. Marito. We’re building a house out of words and lies, and I’m not sure which ones will stand when the first real hit lands.
I stand. "I’ll be back at six."
"Bring a lead," she says. "Or more pajamas."
"Red?"
She lifts the pocket with the thong, smiles without teeth. "Dealer’s choice."