Chapter 15

15

SERENA

I 'm not the only one who's late I quip to myself. Jack Marino is always on time. Right now, he's keeping me waiting. I sit at the diner, drinking decaf coffee which feels pointless. I look at my phone, scroll aimlessly to keep from watching the clock. I breathe through my mouth to try and ignore the fried food and maple syrup smell of the place. I wish I knew where he is, why he's running late. I have to stop watching the door. It's pathetic.

When ten minutes pass, I check my texts again, make sure this is the right place, the right time. He hadn't meant six AM instead of six PM, for example. There is no mistake. I'm here. He isn't. I message him, my exasperation bleeding into some worry. His job, after all, goes beyond meetings in a board room. There are certain risks involved.

My leg jiggles up and down, nervous, as I wait for a reply. I try to drink my decaf, grimace and push it away. The waitress knows I'm waiting for someone. When she comes by with the coffee pot to offer me a refill, I shake my head.

"He'll be here any minute," I say with forced cheeriness. She nods but I think she pities me; believes I've been stood up. He won't do that to me, I want to protest, but that's exactly what someone would say who's being stood up. They'd make excuses about traffic or imagine a car crash. I don't need to let my imagination run away with me here. Borrowing trouble, my dad has always called it, when I conjure up the worst possible outcome.

I've licked my lips too many times and dig in my purse for lip balm. While I'm fishing around for it, my phone dings and I grab it like it's my life raft. Be right there, parking now, his text reads. Relief that he's okay floods me, that no disaster has happened, but then comes frustration hot on its heels. No apology, no excuse. I frown at my phone and put it away.

When he slides into the booth opposite me, I'm toying with a sugar packet, studiously not looking at him. I'm pouting and I know it. I have the sense to be a bit ashamed of myself. I look up. He looks disheveled, hair just a bit messed up, shirt rumpled.

What the hell was he doing?

"I'm sorry. I got held up."

"I was worried," I admit.

He reaches across the table and takes my hand.

"I'm here. Everything's fine," he says, his voice tight.

"Tell me what's wrong," I say, a challenge more than a question.

"There's no problem. I know this is different from the places I usually take you, but I've loved this place since I was a kid. They have the best pancakes. You have to try the pecan caramel ones," he says, handily changing the subject.

"Jack," I say, pulling my hand back.

I look him in the face, see a flush high on his cheekbone. His eyes are bright, a little wild.

"Why didn't' you kiss me?" I ask, suspicious.

"Not that I don't want to. It's a family place. It's not a romantic setting."

"You've kissed me on a park bench in the middle of the day, and that's a family place," I challenge. Something is going on and he isn't telling me. I'm not sure if I am more offended that he thinks I'll ignore it or angry that he doesn't just come out with it.

"I was carried away. That happens a lot when I'm with you," he says ruefully. "It's probably a shock to see that I can be appropriate in public."

"You were appropriate at the charity gala. It was like an old-fashioned movie, walking in on your arm, dancing to the orchestra. What are you hiding, Jack?" I say, exasperated. "And let me see your other hand while you're at it, the one that's been in your pocket. If you try to tell me I'm imagining things, I'll walk out of here. Show me your hand and come over here and kiss me if nothing's the matter."

He slides out of the booth and comes to me then. I reach for him, taste the whiskey on his breath before our lips meet. He isn't a man who drinks heavily or in the afternoon. I let him kiss me, mind reeling. He's breathing harder than he should be, and there's a tightness around his mouth. I touch his chest, feel the sweat soaked fabric and my hand slides down his body of its own accord, searching until I find it. The sticky wetness of blood on his side. He draws a breath in sharply and I reel back, looking at him.

"Don't say it's just a scratch," I whisper. "We're getting out of here now."

I toss five bucks on the table and nudge him out of the booth. We go to the parking lot and I ignore the protests that he's fine, he's had worse.

"Yeah, I'm sure you rode on horseback for three days and then caught the outlaws, cleaned up the whole town and they made you sheriff for life," I snap. "What the hell are you thinking? You should be at the ER, or at least calling me to check you out. What happened?"

"There was a skirmish. A lieutenant of mine got overexcited and made a threat. Our new associate took offense and when I tried to break it up, I took a knife to the side. It was one strike. The guy who did it practically shit himself when he realized who he'd stabbed. He was going for the dumbass who started making threats and didn't see I was in the mix until it was too late."

"You're saying you don't blame the guy who stuck a knife in your gut?" I say incredulously.

"Honest mistake," he smirks. "If he was trying to hit me, he should've gone for the heart or the throat. Because if you can't kill me in one strike, you've made a very stupid mistake. Fatal even."

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"Did you tell someone else to kill him?"

"No. I was running late to meet you. I slapped a handkerchief on it, applied pressure. Had a driver drop me off while I drank out of his flask."

"You drank so I wouldn't see you were pale," I say grimly. "But you couldn't kiss me because I'd taste it."

"I thought I was really clever there," he says. He's sitting in the passenger seat of my crappy car, letting me drive. "Are you going to dump me out in front of the ER or what?"

"We can't go to my house because my dad is there. Not that he wouldn't be thrilled to entertain a wounded Mob boss and try to leverage his silence to get a line of credit from you," I practically spit the words, knowing it's true. Knowing my dad won't be discreet or respectful. "I'm taking you to Bettino's. There's first aid crap there, and I can clean out your cut, see how bad it is. You feel faint?"

"Not when I'm sitting down. Look, you don't have to clean me up. It was a simple dispute in close quarters, and it's a hazard of the job. I got cut up worse than this over some girl in high school behind the gym. When I went to my dad, he said quit doing stupid shit and go get a band-aid if you think you need one."

"Really?"

"Really," he says with a chuckle.

"Yeah, not funny. That's abusive."

"Baby, you don't know the half of it. I got stitched up that time, down at the body shop."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"No, it's the chop shop and salvage yard my dad owned. We took apart stolen cars, sold the radios and transmissions and shit for cash. It was profitable, but I got out of the business once I took over."

"Because of the stolen goods?"

"No, it's not an integrity thing. It was seedy, kind of like Bettino's but without the lovable bartender to redeem it. The guys that worked the body shop were low level assholes that drugged on the job and fenced other shit out the back room." He shrugs like it was trashy and not worth the trouble.

I swing into the parking lot and turn off the car. We go in the back by the office and everybody clears out on cue. I scrub my hands in the bathroom and get out the supplies. I expect him to remove the items on the desk, efficiently ready the space I need to work. Instead, I find him sagging in a chair, his lips pale, eyes fevered and a little glassy.

I kneel down by him. "Hey," I say softly, "you still with me? Jack?"

"Yeah, ‘course I am," he slurs.

I peel back his jacket and see the blood soaked through the entire left side, a dark stain down the left thigh of his slacks. A bolt of fear pins me in place for a second before my training kicks in. If he's losing this much blood, I don't have time to send him to ER anyway. I snatch an ice pack out of the mini fridge and slap it against his side, tell him to hold it. He tries to but his arm seems limp when he attempts to press the ice pack on the wound. I lean out the door and signal to Foz.

He drops his bar mop and hustles to the office door faster than an old guy that size should be able to move.

"I need your help."

"Boss in there?"

"Yeah. He got cut. I'm gonna need another pair of hands," I admit, try to keep my voice even and sure.

Foz looks over my shoulder and sees Jack slumped down and nods. I let him pass and shut the door again. He washes up and joins me.

"How bad?"

"I need scissors," I tell him. He hands me what I ask for as I peel the shirt away from the clotting wound, a jagged gash that's probably three inches long. My eyes flash to Foz when I see it. His mouth tightens but he doesn't say anything, which lets me know he hasn't seen worse than this on the regular. He's not doing the jovial chatter I had hoped for, but he's efficient and understands what we need to do.

He helps me get Jack onto the desk because I need to be able to reach the cut better than I could with him in the chair. He can stand for a few seconds with assistance, and we stretch him out on the surface that Foz has cleared and covered with a sterile plastic sheet.

While I put on fresh gloves and set out my supplies, Foz gets a bottle out of the freezer, offers it to me. I shake my head even though I'd love to take one drink to silence my nerves. He props up his boss's head and gives him a couple of drinks. It brings some color back to his face and he coughs, swears at the pain from coughing with a three-inch slice down his side.

I swallow hard and assess the location. It's low enough it would have missed his spleen but it's definitely more than a quarter inch deep, which means stitches and antibiotic cream if our luck holds. If he takes an infection or it somehow nicked a kidney, we're screwed.

I clean the cut, wash away the dried blood and sponge off the surrounding skin. There's so much blood. I have to focus on the steps I need to follow to clean and suture this to prevent infection. All I can think is, Jack's bleeding. Jack's bleeding. My baby's father is bleeding. It echoes through me with every pounding heartbeat.

My hands have a tremor in them, and I remember the ethics unit on how we shouldn't be assigned to care for people we love. Our clinical objectivity is compromised, that was the main point of the chapter. I can see that now, because any rational thought is shot to hell knowing the man I'll be stitching up is the same man who braces his weight on his forearms and licks into my mouth to swallow my cries when he makes me come. I pause and look at his face, the clenched jaw and brows drawn low, the hiss of breath between his teeth when he tries not to swear or moan from the pain of this stab wound.

I hold down pressure really hard on the wound, resist the urge to check every few seconds to see if it's slowed or stopped yet. It seems like forever, and Foz switches out my compress when it's saturated with bright red blood. After probably ten minutes, I lift the second compress off and see that it's slowed to a seep. Relief seems to grab me by the throat and shake me in its jaws. He isn't bleeding to death. That's progress. I clear my throat and get to work.

I sink the needle into his skin, puckering the flesh together at the end of the gash, and I draw the stitch taut. I repeat this motion again and again. Sweat runs down in my eyes and I remind myself to breathe because I keep holding my breath and biting my tongue.

"Puncture wounds normally heal just fine as long as they're kept clean and treated with antibiotic ointment," I say, more for my benefit than for his.

"You need me to finish?" Foz offers. I shake my head.

"I can do this, thanks," I say. "Thanks for your help." I'm dismissing him because I want to be alone with Jack.

I glance at Foz pointedly and give him a nod. He discards his gloves and goes back out to the bar. I can see he wants to argue with me, think he should stay, but I'm his boss's woman. That gives me the authority to send him away. He trusts me, I realize, or he would defy me no matter who the hell I thought I was.

"I loved you the first day you walked in here," Jack rasps, his hand reaching for me but not quite making it. "I'm sorry ‘bout this."

"It's what I got paid for," I say, and I mean it to be a joke, but I'm crying. I finish up the stitches and give him an antibiotic shot.

His eyes drift shut. I clean up the mess, the towels, the pieces of his bloody shirt on the floor, and stuff them in a trash bag. I wash my hands and blow my nose, try to stop crying and straighten up. Instead, I shut my eyes and grip the sink hard, make myself take deep breaths. Then I turn and throw up in the toilet, gagging and retching like all the terror in my body has to escape.

I rinse my mouth and try to quiet the choking sobs that won't seem to stop.

He's sitting up on the desk when I come out of the bathroom. His face is tight with pain, but he's more alert than he was before. "Come here, baby," he says, "You're a lifesaver, you know that? I mean it. Now get over here and don't get spooked over this."

"Spooked?" I say incredulously. "Like fear isn't a valid response to seeing you with a three-inch puncture wound to your left abdomen?"

"You know what I mean. It wasn't a big deal. You stitched me right up. I appreciate it, by the way. Not exactly what you thought you'd get when I asked you out for a meal." He gives a dry laugh.

"Jack," I say sadly, going over to him. He touches my cheek, the barest brush of his thumb across my cheekbone, his molten dark eyes on mine.

"Don't leave me over this, Serena," he says. "I don't want to lose you, but especially not over some stupid mistake. I know what you're gonna say—I should have got the cut seen to instead of trying to go to the diner and pass it off as fine. And you're right, I should have."

I wait for him to finish, but my mouth is dry, my eyes are wet.

"You're no coward, Serena. You marched in here with nothing but knowledge of your father's debt and asked for a job. You've never had a shortage of nerve. Don't let it fail you now. You're tougher than one piece of bad luck. Hell, you're tougher than anyone I ever met. We've got our office all to ourselves now. I think we should celebrate."

"You're really doing this," I say, my voice flat and small. "You want to brush this off like it was nothing. Then you think I want to hook up on this desk after I just scrubbed your blood out from under my nails."

I don't even try to keep the anguish from my voice. I want him to hear it this time. I'm not playing the cool girl who can roll with the danger and be efficient and levelheaded in a crisis. I'm being real with him. I could have lost Jack tonight, and the only reason I didn't was that I called Foz in to keep me from falling to pieces and crying all over my bleeding lover.

"Just because it wasn't a full-fledged assassination doesn't make it nothing, and it doesn't make me dramatic because it scares the hell out of me!" I go on. "I can't live like this."

"Break it down for me then. How do you want to live?"

"Other than ‘in an imaginary world where you're not in the freakin' Mob?' I guess I want to live the way I was before I met you. Working and saving tuition money and taking care of my dad. No dance lessons, no slipping into an elite club for a quickie in the middle of the day, no high stakes danger and desire game. I'm not built for this kind of life."

"Stuff like this doesn't happen than often since I've taken over. It was way worse when my dad was in charge," he says, like that's a ringing recommendation.

"That's supposed to make me feel better?" I say, voice rising. "I had your blood on my hands. It's still all over me. When you kept losing consciousness, I thought I was going to go crazy. I wouldn't be able to stop the bleeding, and I was praying like I should've been struck by lightning for the bargains I offered to make with God to save your life. I can't believe you did this to me. You are such an asshole!"

"For getting stabbed," he says wryly.

"For making me fall for you."

"Come here," he says and reaches for me again. I shake my head. I know if I let him touch me, I'll stay. I'll do anything he says as soon as he gets his mouth on mine. I'll tell him it's all right and I'll climb on the desk and strip off my top and let him suck my nipples while I ride him right there where I put pressure on his wound and sutured it. I'd be ashamed afterward, but I can't pretend that I wouldn't let him fuck me right then and there. I have to stay out of arm's reach. It's hard enough when I can hear his voice, how incredibly reasonable and convincing he sounds, how seductive.

"Let me take you someplace for the weekend. We can get away, give you some time to process this and spend some time alone together away from the business," he offers.

"I'm no expert, but I hear there's no leaving the business behind," I say. "It's not like we could go to the beach for a weekend while you take a break from organized crime."

"That isn't how it works with any job," he says reasonably. So infuriatingly reasonable that I grit my teeth. "You don't stop being a nursing student when you go out of town do you?"

"I don't go out of town. That kind of activity requires a certain disposable income I don't have, Jack," I say primly. I'm pissed, but mainly I'm scared out of my mind. I can still feel his hot blood slipping into my hands every time his heart pumped, recognize the ache in my shoulders and upper traps from the pressure I had to apply to the wound to stop it bleeding.

"Please," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I can't do this anymore. I don't have it in me, Jack. I thought I could do anything to be with you, but it turns out I'm too weak and too scared to go on."

I crumple into a chair, face in my hands. When I try to wipe the tears and mascara off my face, I'm convinced I can smell the rusty tang of his blood still clinging to my skin. The moan that comes out of me is barely human, a wail that sounds like an injured animal.

His aloof logic evaporates. He gets off the desk and goes to his knees beside my chair. He takes my hands in his, pulls them away from his face.

"I can keep you safe, Serena. I wouldn't say that if I didn't mean it. You know me, you know I love you. Nothing is worth losing you over, nothing," he says.

His fingers feel cold when they wrap around mine. I look up, scan him for signs of shock. He doesn't feel or look feverish. When I grip his wrist and concentrate, his pulse is steady. His lips and his fingernails are their normal color. He's alert and doesn't show any sign of confusion. I let out a breath, reassured that he isn't going into shock.

His cool fingers trace my jaw and grip my chin. He sets his mouth on mine, kissing first my upper lip and then my lower lip. My lips tremble as I sway closer to him, my hands on the smooth skin of his bare shoulders. Warmth threads through me, coiling in my belly and heating my core. I nip at his lip, stroke his tongue with mine. I'm helpless, like I knew I'd be if I let him touch me again.

"Come home with me. Let me make this up to you, let me make you forget this night ever happened," he says, rubbing his mouth over mine, the rough scrape of his stubble igniting my skin and making my nipples tighten.

I drag my lips from his with effort. It feels unnatural, and everything in me rebels against withdrawing from Jack. Because all I want is to let him devour me, wipe out my memory of fear and blood and replace it with closeness and connection, deep physical satisfaction.

I want to weep with frustration and grief because he's right here, his mouth less than an inch from mine, the taste of his whiskey still on my tongue. I would beg, crawl, do anything to stay with him. Except put my child in the path of danger. My love for Jack made this baby, and I'll protect him or her no matter what it costs me. Even if it costs me the only happiness I've ever known.

God, I'm going to miss him—I almost falter, almost change my mind because I quail at the thought. The raw need in my body, the love I have for him that will go unspoken, unfulfilled. I can't give him that love, not without giving his rivals a shot at our baby as well. Never, the word reverberates up my spine like it was shouted from deep in my soul.

Whatever the cost, I remind myself.

I take another step back. Steadying myself with a hand on the back of the chair, I shake my head. "I'm sorry, Jack. I appreciate everything you've done to help me, and the time we shared," I damn near choke on the words.

This is the last thing I want to do. But I have to make him believe it. Even though it will break my heart.

"What are you saying?" he says. "You want to leave? Never see me again?" His mouth hardens and he seems to realize that he's shirtless, that the sutured cut pulls painfully when he moves. Still, he comes to me, takes me by the shoulders. "Let me change your mind. Give me a chance."

I open my mouth but cannot find words to speak. This proud, powerful man begs me to give him another chance. He loves me, and no other man could ever love me the same way. My chest hollows out and a devastating mix of sadness and shame choke me.

Let him think I am spooked by his injury, that I can play in his world but when it gets real, I run off. Let him think me faithless, disloyal. Only don't let him realize I'm pregnant. That is the only important thing, I remind myself. If he hates me, that's probably better. The voice in my head screaming for me to defend myself, to explain, to tell him I love him—that voice is stupid and self-destructive and doesn't get a vote.

I grab a water from the mini fridge and chug about half of it just to clear my throat enough to speak. "Leave your stitches alone even when they pull. Don't overdo. Take Tylenol for pain and if it starts bleeding or opens up, see a doctor," I recite as coolly as I can. "I'm sure you can get a ride from here, so I'm going to take off."

"That's it," he says flatly, disbelief making his face look younger and vulnerable.

"I guess tell Foz I said thanks," I say, and I hate myself so much that I dig my nails into my palm as I speak the words.

"Yeah, and what do I tell myself?" he says, bitterness creeping in.

"That I had a good time," I say. I can't quite make myself shrug even though I know it would drive home the callousness of what I say. My shoulders won't cooperate. Like even my muscles and joints know this is bullshit and won't participate.

I grab my keys and walk out, and I don't let myself look back.