Page 67 of Wounded King

He indulges me, pulls out his phone, and acts like he's reading a file, "FabrizioFabioBecattini. Former enforcer for the Giordano family, current lover," Luciano pauses for dramatics and looks up as if this is news to him, "to none other than Donna Margarita Giordano."

"Fabio," I crease my brows and scratch my chin, "where have I heard that name before?"

The soldier who stopped Fabio's swinging is a wise ass and cracks, "Wasn't that some hot model for some women's porn? For the covers or some shit like that?"

"That one?" I play along, taking Fabio in from head to toe, pretending to mull it over. "I don't know, he might have had the body once, but look at that face. All those scars and only one eye."

"Cut the bullshit, Marcello, why the fuck am I here?" Fabio demands.

I step forward and return the questions."Why are you trying to have me killed? Who gave the orders?"

His single black eye glares at me. He doesn't deny the accusation.

"Margarita will have your balls for breakfast if you don't let me go, right fucking now," he boasts.

I land a hard kick against his stomach, making my hip cry out in pain, but it feels so damn good to finally release some of that fury that has been simmering inside me ever since the fucking parking garage.

A quick nod at the soldier stops Fabio's swinging. He glares at me. I punch him in the stomach while the same soldier holds him so he doesn't go spinning again.

"I know that Casimo was related to Helen, and I know that Edoardo does whatever pleases her. What I don't know is how Margarita is involved in all this." I fill the bastard in.

He laughs. Actually laughs. "You know shit, Marcello."

The fury in the pit of my stomach returns full-blown. I use Fabio as a punching bag for a few minutes until I have myself back under control; by then, he's coughing up blood.

"I don't care what you do to me, but Donna Margarita will filet you for this," Fabio threatens.

"Oh, will she now?" I raise my bloodied hands and wiggle my fingers in front of his face. "Is that all you got? Hiding behind an old woman's skirt? Donna Margarita will… fuck, what kind of man are you if you need a woman to fight your battles?"

He stops laughing and simply glares. I hold out my hand, and without having to say anything, Luciano places a knife into it. I hold it up to Fabio's one good eye. "I wonder if she'll still fancy a blind old fart."

He spits at me.

Luciano puts a hand on my shoulder, just in time to stop me from stabbing the spineless coward to death. That won't give us any information. I realize it's what he wants.

Three days later…

It's been three days since I saw him. Since I touched him. Since I told Marcello Orsi that I couldn't do this anymore and walked out of his penthouse like I wasn't breaking apart with every step.

I try to breathe through the pain of missing him, but it presses in like a weight. Heavy and suffocating. It makes it hard to take a deep breath. I make coffee, I fold towels, I water the plant on my windowsill that's already half-dead. The sky is gray outside, the kind of color that turns your bones cold. I check my phone more times than I want to admit. Nothing.

No messages. No calls. Not even from Luciano. It hurts more than it should.

I told him I couldn't do this. But now that I'm alone with my thoughts, all I can do is feel his absence like a phantom touch. I miss him so much, more than should be possible for someone you hardly know. I try to tell myself it's just the nursing instinct inside of me, the need to see my patient through until he's all healed, but I know it's a lie. I can still feel the weight of his stare, the heat of his hand on my back, the way he said my name in his deep, husky voice.

With every hour that passes, I question my sanity. Am I crazy for leaving him, or am I crazy for wanting him back?

Finally, when I'm about to break down and call him, I go visit my mom, hoping seeing her will strengthen my resolve that this is better and that I need to stay away from him.

"You look tired," she greets me with those knowing mom eyes that see too much.

I force out a laugh, "I hate that polite way of saying you look like shit."

She leads me into the kitchen, where a piece of cheesecake sits waiting for me, her way of a peace offering. Seeing the cake, I realize I haven't eaten since… shit, three days, if you don't count the banana and tub of ice cream. Not since… that dinner. Our date.

I fall over the cheesecake like a starving woman. Mom laughs and asks me if I want more, and I say, "Yes, please."

She cuts another generous slice, and I devour that one too. Feeling slightly better now, although sluggish and oversugared.