Page 110 of The Masked King

The owner, Marco, comes out from behind the counter when I enter, shakes my hand warmly, and claps a heavy hand on my shoulder in greeting. He doesn’t question the blood drying on my clothes, or the dressing on my shoulder, or the way I slump onto a bar stool. He doesn’t try to swap pleasantries while he brews espresso and places pastries I didn’t order into a brown takeout bag.

But when I’m ready to leave, he walks to the door with me. “You need anything, Mr. Sabatelli, you come and find me, you hear?” Then he turns around and walks back inside before I can thank him.

That simple gesture of friendship buoys my steps walking back to the hospital. I raised the barriers when Demi left me, shut myself off from the people who cared about me, from those who only wanted to help, who wanted to support me when I needed it most and didn’t realize. I know now that they’ll be right beside me every step of the way when I tell them what I plan to do next.

If this were a Disney movie, I’d be whistling a cheerful tune as I step out of the elevator and into the hushed corridor leading to Demi’s room. The nurse’s station is unoccupied, the night staff in the office catching up on paperwork and monitoring the patient alarm system. The lights are dimmed to emulate a softer, more pleasant version of nighttime while the occupants are asleep.

But everything changes when I realize that Davide is no longer outside Demi’s room.

My hackles rise like a wolf on the scent of a hunter. Balancing coffee and pastries in one hand, I pull out the silenced revolver Gio gave me when I came out of surgery and listen outside the door to Demi’s room.

Silence, other than the low beep of the equipment monitoring her vital signs.

Nothing stirs in the corridors or from behind other doors.

Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I open the door and peek inside. Demi’s hair is still fanned across the pillow, her pale hand with the IV cannula inserted rests on top of the covers, the monitor beside the bed registering her heart rate and blood pressure.

I enter the room, close it behind me, and lean against it. Everything appears to be exactly as I left it, which gives me two scenarios: someone is hiding in the bathroom, or they’re yet to arrive.

Either way, they won’t be walking out of here alive.

Setting down the coffee and pastries on the nightstand, I check out the bathroom, instincts already telling me that they wouldn’t be that predictable.

When I find it empty, I leave the door ajar and move quickly. Someone alerted them to my departure, which means they only needed enough time to get Davide out of the way before making their move. And I can think of only two reasons why he would’ve abandoned his post.

One: Gio gave him the order to leave.

Two: he’s working with the Russians. But that’s a problem for later.

Sliding the visitor trundle bed out, I tug a pillow out from underneath Demi’s head without disturbing her, and a spare blanket from the cabinet on the far side of the room. Then I scoop her into my arms, unable to resist a smile when she leans into my chest and wraps an arm around my neck while she sleeps.

“You’ll be safe here,” I whisper as I settle her onto the thin mattress and cover her with the blanket. “Sweet dreams, baby.”

Demi curls up into the fetal position, one hand tucked beneath her face, and her breathing immediately slips back into the regular pattern of sleep.

From the door, she’s hidden by the bulk of the hospital bed, and I’m not letting the fuckers anywhere near her. I open the window and take her place in bed, revolver in one hand, the remaining smoke canister in the other, and pull the covers over me, trying to make myself as small as possible.

Then I wait.

It isn’t long before the hazy gray shape of danger passes by the window. I cover my head and count down the seconds.

The door opens, hushing across the floor as it allows in a slice of faint light from the corridor and careful footsteps. It closes again, the blind rustling its own gentle warning.

Showtime.

I pop the ring and listen with a sense of satisfaction to the hiss of smoke pouring from the canister as I toss it towards the intruder’s feet.

My first shot enters his thigh before he vanishes in the dirty cloud, and I slink out of bed without a sound as he pumps the mattress with bullets. Using the smokescreen as cover, I circle around him and fire a shot into the back of his skull as he inches closer to the bed. He goes down with a heavy thud, his gun skittering across the floor.

I don’t wait around to check his pulse. I pull on a sterile mask from the equipment trolley, take a second one for Demi, and carry her into the bathroom, locking the door behind us.

She doesn’t stir in my lap. Still, I don’t relax my hold but keep her against me, feeling the steady beat of her heart through the hospital gown, and the gentle flutters of her eyelids as she wanders through her dreamscape. I would stay like this forever if that’s what it takes to keep her safe. I’d take her to Sicily, pick olives in winter, and serve authentic pasta dishes to tourists all summer if that’s what she wants.

It’s a pleasant thought that keeps me smiling while I wait for the smoke to dissipate.

When it’s comfortable for us to go back to the room, I settle her back on the pull-out bed low on the floor, cover her up, and move the corpse to the waiting room.

I recognize him instantly from the night I followed the police commissioner to Kate Glasgow’s apartment.