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How is Katja staying so calm? I guess it’s easy for her, lounging in her penthouse suite many floors above me, continuing on with her glamorous life that has apparently been funded by decades of illegal activity. I, on the other hand, have had my entire life upended thanks to the underground dark business of The Whitney.
“Honestly, you left me speechless.”
“That’s why I called. Now that you’ve had a few hours to think about things, I just wanted to make sure you’re still okay.”
I want to scream that I haven’t been okay since Laura dropped me off at the lobby entrance almost twenty hours ago. It feels like a lifetime ago.
“I don’t know how much longer I can take being cooped up in this room. Dex won’t give me internet access, and Z doesn’t even have a TV in here. This cheap phone doesn’t even have Candy Crush on it. My only activity options left are to read books on anatomy or worrying.”
“It’s probably too late tonight… but I’ll make sure to send some magazines and other goodies to you tomorrow.”
I probably should say thank you, but all I want to do is scream at the thought of staying in this room alone another whole day. I just want my life back.
As afraid as I am of Z, especially now that Katja shared the full scope of his job description, I still find myself on pins and needles waiting for his return. Why has he been gone so long?
Katja says her goodnights and is about to hang up when I finally blurt out, “Wait! Do you know how much longer Z is going to be?”
I hate how scared my voice sounds, preferring my flash of anger from minutes before.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know, but I can try to find out from Dex the next time I talk to him. He’s still up at The Rooftop trying to maintain a sense of normalcy while keeping his ear to the ground for news on the Luciano family activities.”
My first reaction is to be grateful for Dex’s help, but I push that feeling aside, remembering it is his business dealings with the Luciano family that brought JV into The Whitney, and ultimately my path, in the first place.
“Okay, call if you get any new info.”
After we hang up, I can’t stand the thought of pacing like a caged animal anymore. Instead, I head to the bathroom and throw on the shower—again. It’s my third since my attack. I know it’s silly, but some deep-down part of me keeps hoping I might be able to wash the stench of JV’s blood off me, but I get the feeling I may never really feel clean again.
My skin is starting to prune by the time I turn the faucet off a half hour later. The bandages Z put on earlier have lost their stick in the water and I throw them into the garbage can. Funny, I would never give such a small gesture a second thought before today. Now, I wonder if I should worry about leaving my DNA behind in Z’s room.
Wrapping one towel around my body and a second around my hair, I open the door to let some of the steam out of the room.
“Shit!” I cry out as Z is standing just outside the door.
His hand wraps over my mouth as he pulls me into a tight hug to talk against my ear. “You can’t make noise like that. There are people staying on this floor that can’t know you’re here.”
I nip at his fingers to get him to take his hand away. “Then you shouldn’t try to scare the crap out of me by sneaking in like that.”
Why isn’t he releasing me? My brain may want to know the answer to that question, but the rest of me leans into him, taking comfort from his strong embrace. He’s several inches taller than me so I have to crane my neck to look up into his eyes. There’s a weariness that wasn’t there before.
Rather than releasing me, he instead lowers his gaze to my shoulder. “The stitches look to be holding. Good job showering and keeping the wound clean. Let me bandage you up again.”
I shiver when he releases me. I’d like to say it was because the air conditioning was too cool against my damp, bare skin, but I know better. I shouldn’t feel safer with him near—he’s a dangerous man—but I feel some of the tension that’s been building all day slowly seeping out of me.
I let him lead me to the edge of the bed. “Sit,” he orders.
From the armoire he pulls out the same metal case from earlier that holds a plethora of first aid supplies.
He works silently to apply antiseptic cream to my wounds and reapply gauze, giving me time to check him out. For a man who I know has been working in a bloody crime scene all day, he is remarkably clean—not one spec of blood visible.
