“How long have I been here?” I ask, changing the subject.
“A few days.” He shrugs into his black jacket as he swallows the distance between us, stopping only when his arm brushes against mine. “Your doctor says you’re healing well.”
I frown and turn my head, glancing up at him. He has perfect skin. There’s not a single blemish or wrinkle…interesting, given his mature look. How old is he, anyway? Thirty? Thirty–five?
“My doctor?”
Nodding, Stefan adjusts his red tie, pushing it higher. “I’m not qualified to patch you up.”
Obviously. “Who did?”
His lips tug at the corners. “Nice try.”
“You won’t tell me who saved my life?”
“I saved your life,” he says, cutting his eyes at me. “The doctor wanted nothing to do with you.”
I simper. Typical. Even my gynaecologist has a hard time performing his examination because of the people I’m associated with. Dr. Ferguson has never admitted it aloud, but I see the nervous sweat bubble along his brow when I enter the room. I feel the nervous tremble in his gloved hands too.
“Let me guess, he’s terrified of the Russos.”
“He’s more terrified of me.” Stefan extends his large hand and I look at it. “You should take a bath, and do it quick. I have somewhere I need to be.”
A soak does sound good―my hair is oily and heavy—same goes for my skin.
I fold my arms over my chest as best I can. “Where are you going?”
“Out.”
I scowl at him. He’s going to see Moretti, obviously. “It must suck taking orders from such a disgusting, morally bankrupt piece of shit.”
“You tell me.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why don’t you tell me what it’s like taking orders from a disgusting, morally bankrupt piece of shit?”
I open my mouth to shoot something witty back only…only…well, I got nothing. Christiano is no better than Moretti, which makes me no better than Stefan. Damn.
Exhaling, I slip my hand into his. “I guess we’re as bad as each other.”
“No.” He closes his warm hand around mine. “You’re in a league of your own.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stefan leads me back toward the hall where my room is and I follow as quickly as my fragile body will take me.
“It means I do what I’m told for incredibly large amounts of money. That’s my motive. What’s yours?”
“What’s my motive?”
Once in the hall, we turn left, instead of right. “That’s what I asked.”
What is my motivation? It’s not money. I make plenty of that on my own. I guess my motivation is love…or, at least it used to be love.
Now? I suppose I’m motivated by fear.
Fear of the Russos.
Fear of Christiano.
Fear of not being woman enough for anyone else.
I peer at Stefan. It’s funny how something as positive as love can morph into something as catastrophic as fear. The change is so gradual the two become confusing as they blend into one. Fear. Love. What’s the difference, really?
I look away from him. He sees it. He sees my fear. He’s witnessed it. Stefan watched from a rooftop as I submitted to Christiano’s anger and allowed him to take whatever he wanted from me. God knows what else he has seen…
Ignoring my silence, Stefan walks me through a large, frosted glass door and into an extravagant bathroom. Instantly, I feel out of place. I feel…dirty.
He releases my hand and gestures toward the filled tub. It’s gigantic and steaming, like a hot bowl of soup. I hug myself. What the hell am I doing here?
“I’ve put a few things in the water, as instructed by your doctor.”
I watch silently as Stefan stalks toward the tub and dips his hand into the milky coloured water. I’m surprised the doctor advised I bathe my cuts. I wouldn’t suggest that to any of my patients.
“It should help with the healing.”
If he told me the exact names of the things he put in the water, then I’d be able to confirm if it will indeed help with my healing. He swishes the water around before reaching for a handtowel and drying his skin. He locks his beautiful dark eyes with mine and my throat dries. I open my mouth to say something, but only a pathetic rush of air comes out.
“Do you need help?” Stefan asks, tilting his head ever so slightly.
I think I do need help, but I’m not about to strip naked in front of him. “No.”
“No?” He fights a smile. “Okay.”
Without another word, he leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
“Jesus…” I whisper, running my hands over my face and through my disgusting hair.
I hobble over to the mirror to assess the damage and—dear God. I look like I’ve been put through a blender. Lots of small, unremarkable scratches mar my skin. Granted, they’re not the kind of scratches that will leave a scar, but in the meantime…yeesh. I don’t even want to see the rest of my body. There’s no need. I can feel the deepness of the sutured slices that embellish the hidden parts of my body. I unwrap one bandage at a time, dumping them on the floor at my feet as I expose each lesion.
Turning away from the mirror, I exhale and grab the collar of my gown, pulling it forward, allowing the lavender fabric to slip off my arms and collapse on the floor at my feet. Keeping my attention on the bath, I move toward it. Without thought, I lift my thigh to plant my foot on the small, tiled step.
“Ah!” I hiss as red hot pain slices through my body, emanating from a cut on my inner thigh. I glance down at it and gape in horror as a small drop of blood seeps from the very end of the cut. Note to self: take it easy.
Slowly, oh so slowly, I manage to pull myself up onto the top step. Hunching as gently as I can, I grip the cold, wet porcelain of the edge of the bath in my hands. How am I going to lift this leg?
There’s a gentle knock at the door. I panic and jump into the bath, regardless of the pain. Water rushes over the edges and spills onto the floor.
“Is everything all right?” he asks through the door.
“Everything is fine.”
I expect him to open the door. Christiano would. He wouldn’t give me any privacy even though I’m completely horrified with my appearance, but Stefan doesn’t impose on my solitude. He doesn’t embarrass me by assessing my naked body, and I make note of it.
Every slice in my skin stings with whatever is being washed into them. You know, in retrospect, perhaps jumping out of a window wasn’t the smartest idea.
I wince as the water swirls against me without mercy, attacking me. Clenching my jaw, I ease myself back against the porcelain, soaking my entire body up to the lobes of my ears, and lift my arms. The gnarly cuts look grotesque against my wraithlike skin. How did I not bleed out? How can Stefan look at me without grimacing?
After a while, the water feels less like a harsh acid, eating away the surface layer of my skin, and more like a sheet of silk, kissing my imperfect flesh. And, when my entire body has been soaked to the point of pruning, I finally decide to wash my hair. I slide down the edge of the bath and hold my breath before slipping under the water. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to submerge my face in a bath with unknown chemicals, but at this point, it can’t possibly make me look any worse.
When my hair has completely soaked through, I gently pull myself into a sitting position again and call for Stefan. There is no shampoo or conditioner, and I’m not about to climb out of this bath just for those.
Forty seconds later, there’s a gentle knock at the door and Stefan enters, looking rather irritated. “What is it, Cammie?”
Heat seeps into my cheeks and taunts the guilt in my stomach. If Christiano knew…“Do you think you can help me wash my hair?”
He frowns at me and I cover my breasts, even though he can’t see them through the milky water. Exhaling, Stefan stalks to the counter and retrieves a bottle of shamp
oo and a bottle of conditioner from underneath the sink. They’re both pink in hue. One is opaque, the other translucent. It reminds me of the stuff my mum used when I was young. He shrugs out of his jacket, the sleeves of his black button up shirt still rolled at the elbows.
“What’s it smell like?” I ask and he stops in his tracks, deepening his frown.
“How would I know?”
“You don’t smell shampoo before you buy it?”
“No.”
“Go on,” I say, slowly pulling my knees to my chest. “Smell it.”
He mutters my name under his breath and follows it up with something in Italian that I can’t hear before popping the lid and bringing it closer to his face. He inhales through his perfect nose and pauses, letting the scent register in his brain.
“Apple or something.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“Apple, huh?” I lift my head and straighten my spine. “Apple it is.”
Stefan crosses over to me and sits on the step next to the bath. He frowns at me when the water I spilled previously soaks into his pants.
“Sorry.” I tell him and he shakes his head.
His smell is stronger than anything else in here and it is absolutely intoxicating in the most wonderful of ways. I haven’t smelled anything like it before in my life, and, trust me, I’ve smelled plenty. Christiano is a connoisseur when it comes to expensive colognes, but not even his most expensive scent stands a chance against whatever Stefan is wearing.
Stefan squeezes the shampoo into one of his palms and lowers the bottle. Twisting his torso, he leans over the lip of the bath and runs his hands through my hair. I hiss every time his fingers become tangled in my knots, but otherwise remain silent as he washes my hair out with a cup and does the same thing with the conditioner. His hands are large and soft. He touches my scalp with utmost care, giving my roots so much attention. I’ve never had my hair washed like this before.
By the end of it, the water is cool, my hair smells divine, and my body is numb. I thought having Stefan here to help me would be awkward, but he’s so quiet I keep forgetting he’s in the room.
Turning my head toward him, I wrap my arms around my legs and pull them toward my chest, resting my head on my knees.
“You’ll reopen a wound if you sit like that,” he tells me, drying his hands on the same cloth from earlier.
“It should be okay,” I say, moving my shoulders. “I am itchy, though…”
“Where?”
“The middle of my back.”
Stefan presses the cloth to the middle of my back and rubs it in circles, hitting the spot on the first go. I hum and close my eyes. Twenty seconds pass and I feel the slightest hesitation in his hands before he slides the cloth down the length of my spine, submerging it in my bath water. Nervousness churns my stomach as he lifts the cloth and squeezes all of the water from it.
I hold my breath. I can’t remember the last time I felt nervous in front of the opposite sex. In the beginning, Christiano always made me nervous—the good kind of nervous. The kind where dread and anticipation clashed together before every touch and exploded into excitement on impact. I miss that.
I want to feel anticipation, not disgust.
I feel anticipation now. It’s seized my entire body and I strain my ears, listening for the water to finish draining from the cloth. What will he do?
I gasp and open my eyes as he dabs the soft cloth along my shoulders. I look at him, but he’s purposely avoiding my stare. His eyebrows are drawn, pinched into a frown, and the left one has a subtle kink in it, like he’s caught up in some wild train of thought. What is he thinking? He has the most unreadable face.
“Why won’t you kill me?” I ask, scratching my lower lip with my top teeth. “If Moretti is paying you a lot of money, why not do it? Why not save yourself all this trouble?”
He simpers.
“What?”
“One hundred and four confirmed kills…” His dark, espresso stare meets mine and my tummy flips. “How many, do you think, have tried to convince me to kill them?”
I shrug.
“Go on.”
This feels a little like déjà vu.
“One?” I answer, assuming it’s only me.
Stefan smiles. It’s engaging and infectious instead of the usual twisted, rueful, and unkind grins I’m used to from men like him.
“One.” He drops the cloth and drags his hands over his suddenly tired face. “Cosa devo fare con te? Sarai la mia rovina.”
What am I going to do with you? You’ll be my downfall.
I frown. What does he mean by that?
“Parlo italiano anch'io, Stefan.”
I speak Italian too…
∞ Stefan Valentino ∞
My heart stops.
Of course she speaks Italian. How the hell did I miss that? Ten years in an Italian family and I completely disregarded the possibility of her both understanding and communicating in Italian? I haven’t made a rookie mistake like this in eighteen years.
Assumption.
It can be a killer.
Cammie blinks at me with her beautiful gold eyes and all I do is look at her. I’m frozen stiff, berating myself in my head instead of taking control of the situation. What the hell is happening to me? Erratic and careless is the man I used to be. Calm and collected, that’s me now.
I push myself to my feet. “Fresh towels are on the rack, and there are some large, lightweight clothes on your bedside table.”
“Where are you going?”
I turn away from her. I can’t stay here. I can’t be in the same room as her. She makes it so fucking hard to breathe, like a cigarette of the strongest flavour. Speaking of which…I storm from the bathroom, reaching into the pocket of my slacks for my packet of cigarettes. My shoes tap against the tiles as I pluck out a cigarette and stuff it between my lips. I throw back the heavy, white drapes, push the sliding door to the side, and step out into the cool morning air.
With the cigarette between my lips, I inhale through my nose and hold the air in my lungs. I don’t smoke. I used to, but I haven’t lit a cigarette in almost fifteen years. These days, however, I’m feeling the itch more than ever.
“Shit.” I pinch the cigarette and stuff it into my pocket. Why am I so volatile this morning? Because I’m a fucking idiot. It has come to my attention that, over the past few weeks, I have developed some kind of…infatuation with my target.
Cammie Connors…
I can’t think of anything more pathetic than that. From the beginning I’ve criticised Christiano Russo for being obsessed with this female, calling him stupid for hanging around, for wasting his time with a woman who gives him so much grief, so much attitude…but now I see why he wants her as bad as he does. I see why he wants her all to himself. She’s innocent and sassy. She’s a woman who can stand on her own two feet, and what’s not to admire about that? She’s intelligent, compassionate and, God help me, she’s beautiful too. I am way out of my league and I can’t keep her here. I can’t have her in my house. I thought I could. I thought having her here would be easy, but I was wrong.
I’m distracted. I’m on edge. I’m wound so tightly that I’m seconds away from imploding. I’ve turned down six jobs—six well-paying jobs—because I wanted to be here when she woke up. I wanted to make sure she was okay. Enzo Maroni, my father, my mentor, and the man who brought me into this game, would turn in his grave if he knew that I’d become so wrapped up in a target. I can see it now. If he was alive, he’d beat me for bringing her back to my quiet place, my home.
Never. Ever. Ever get involved with a target. Keep your distance. Always, he’d say.
My mother was a target of his. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt her…so they ran away together. The mob boss who put in the order originally hired someone else to track them down. He found them two years later. My father and I were out for ice-cream, apparently, when the hitman gunned my mother down while she was in the shower.
I have to
get Cammie out of my house before I make the same mistakes my father did. If I can convince Moretti that we’re wasting our time with her, then maybe he’ll let her go.
Rinnnnggg. Without hesitation, I whip my cell phone out and answer Franco’s call. “What?”
“Don’t what me,” he bites out. “I need you here, Valentino. Christiano Russo has decided he’d like a sit down with me and your presence will help keep our involvement with Connors under wraps.”
I grimace. “You want to put me in the same room as Christiano Russo?”
“Yes. And you’ll behave yourself,” he snaps. “This is your mess, after all.”
I shift my weight, glaring out across the large infinity pool that I’ve yet to swim in. “My mess?”
“If you had shot the girl when I asked you to, we would have been able to plant the necessary evidence to make it look like a random break and enter. This is your mess.”
“Fran—”
“Here! Now! Or I’ll have you chopped into little pieces and fed to your fucking dogs.”
He hangs up as Romeo and Juliet round the corner of my house, their stumpy tails wagging excitedly. My dogs. The only beasts I can count on in this Godforsaken world.
Chapter Ten
∞ Cammie Connors ∞
After I’ve put on the ugly, bland, beige gown Stefan left for me in my room, I rest on the bed and doze in and out for…I don’t know how long. Could be seconds…could be minutes…could be days…
Eventually, though, I throw off the blankets and force myself from the bed. I can’t be here. I don’t want to be here. The hospital will be worried sick—the Russos too. Am I just supposed to wait around? If I’m not dead, I’m not going to pretend like I am. If I can just get to the main road—wherever that is—I’m sure someone will help me.
I leave the room in a hurry. My body is still stiff and sore, but surprisingly, I’m not feeling that bad. I’m definitely less groggy since I’ve had my bath.