21. Gigi

21

GIGI

I step in under the tepid water and shudder. I don't want it warmer, not with my raw skin. Bile rises in me as the water runs down my body and finds the grooves of those lines as if they're aqueducts. I inch a finger closer and feel the cut with the tip. I jerk away, too grossed out.

If I don't think about it, if I don't look at it, if the pain subsides which it will, this scar won't exist anywhere except in my memory. There, it will fade like all bad memories. I sag against the shower's cold marble wall and sob. With every heave of my chest, my ribcage protests.

A death sentence.

Stephano is like a flipped coin, and I don't know which side I'm dealing with. This isn't the cold and calculated man from Cannes who refused to touch me and stuck to his word. This is a man who had me from the moment I collapsed against his chest at the airport, holding me gently, carrying me, touching me with such care as if I would break. Telling me Franco Fiore signed his own death warrant on my skin.

Same coin, same man, and my body's same treacherous reaction. Why is it that most men are walking red flags, and then there's this one man who only needs to touch me, to tell me to behave, and to promise to murder my fiancé, who makes me want to curl up in his lap and beg him to—to?—

God knows I've been fighting the memories of us in Cannes, but now that I've seen a different side of him, I'll never be able to shed them.

Stephano Scalera is a dangerous man, and not because he is Mafia, but because he's drilling a little hole in the walls of my rock-cold heart. I have vowed to never be involved with a man in the Mafia, never mind marrying one, and have steered clear of any serious relationships, because I don't trust men. They are all coins, and when most of them flip, it's to a side you don't want to know or experience.

I wash my hair and body, ridding myself of travel grime and spots of caked blood where I care to reach for it. Eventually, I feel as clean as I ever will, what with this degrading mark on my skin that will never wash off. At least Franco didn't rape me or claim me in any way beyond this.

I step out of the shower and towel off, then walk out to the bedroom to find Tasha's stack of clothes. I opt for a big T-shirt and go bare underneath. Voices sound from outside the door, followed by a knock.

"Yes?"

Tasha peers in. "It's the doctor. I'll leave you?"

"Yes, thank you."

A home visit… I don't want to know how much this is going to cost. I hope Matteo isn't the type to keep a tab.

To my surprise, it's an older Asian woman. She looks me over but doesn't smile. I bet she doesn't talk either. I sit on the bed as she pulls on surgical gloves. Without speaking, she deals with my arm, which has closed enough to no longer needs stitches. It's going to leave an ugly scar though. When I show her my cuts, she just shakes her head as she proceeds to clean them. I wince and curse under my breath, wishing she'd be gone already.

"Ribs?" she asks, and I lift my shirt higher. "Okay. I've seen a lot worse. He hit you twice?"

"Yes."

"Fucker." She starts to rummage in her doctor's bag, and I drop my shirt again. "I'm not going to cover the scarring, but I'll give you an injection to help fight the infection." She's pulling various items from her bag. "Use this ointment on your groin. And these pain pills and antibiotics. Finish the course. Call me if anything gets worse. Stand now. Butt cheek this side."

Obediently, I stand, glad she doesn't ask me to lie down on my stomach and hitch up my shirt. She's efficient, quick, and so to the point that it's over before I even know she's injected me.

As I drop the T-shirt, a knock sounds on the door, and she shakes her head. "It's never good when it gets busy here."

"Come in," I say, and Stephano swings the door open, holding a tray with food and water.

"Dr. Wong. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

She picks up her medicine bag, not sparing Stephano a glance. "Your guest needs rest. Make sure her infection doesn't get worse. Call me if it does."

"Yes, of course." He stands to the side as the small woman stalks out of the room. When he meets my gaze, there's a twinkle in his eye.

"She's scary," I say with a weak smile.

"Wait until she digs a bullet out of you. Zero sympathy." He places the tray on the bed as his gaze runs the length of my body. "Feeling better?"

"Yes. Thank you. Is Carla okay?"

"She's sleeping. Here's something to eat if you're hungry. Rosalia prepared some fruit and gnocchi."

I carefully sit down and take the bowl of gnocchi. From the divine smell steaming from it, Rosalia can cook. And now, I want to cry again. Not because of everything that's happened, but because this is a bit like home. I didn't expect a warm welcome from the Scaleras, and Matteo hasn't even been here, but as for Stephano and Tasha, they've been nothing but kind and caring.

Stephano pulls the occasional chair closer and sits, leaning with his elbows on his thighs. "I promise I'll let you sleep, but before you do, tell me everything you know about Franco Fiore."

I've taken a bite and it's so good, but at his name, my stomach roils. I swallow, but the bite isn't going down with ease. I'm still tense, and this after getting here and the long shower.

"I don't know much. I met him for the first time on Friday night, and well… he's around forty, forty-five years old, could be older, could be younger. Body tattoo all the way up to his chin. On his hands…tattoos of snakes. I'm not sure if he's 'Ndrangheta. I doubt he's Cosa Nostra. I have no idea. I've been out of the loop for ages. It's as if he's crawled out from an underworld I didn't know existed."

Stephano nods. "And disappeared again."

"I wouldn't know about that."

"Do you think he'll come for you? Here?"

"I don't know. Why would he?" But I know exactly why Franco Fiore will hunt me down. Vincenzo sold me out in more ways than one. "Nobody knows where we are. That's why I contacted Matteo in the first place."

"Okay." He sighs, and I know exactly what that means. So many fucked up reasons why Franco will hunt me down—his wounded pride, for one. "We'll figure him out. I don't want you to worry about it, okay?"

I give an incredulous laugh. "You expect me not to worry that I have a mad man's target on my back?"

"No, because we always repay our debts. We'll be protecting you whatever it takes."