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"Still not recovered fully from being shot, eh?" He holds out his arm, "Come on, let me help you up."
I grab his hand and tug. He loses his balance and falls toward me, but I roll aside. It’s his turn to hit the floor, only he falls on his front, managing to turn his body enough at the last minute so that his cheek smashes into the floor.
"Stocazzo!"he growls, then jumps back to his feet at the same that I do. We circle each other and I notice that he’s bleeding from a cut on his temple.
"You’re not strong enough to take me on, youtesta di cazzo!"
"Try me, you piece of shit." I bare my teeth as I rush toward him at the same time that he moves toward me. We crash into each other, end up with our arms around each other as we grapple. I manage to grab the back of his neck and squeeze. He grips my shoulders and applies enough pressure that pain shoots down both of my arms. Chest to chest, we grunt and try to push the other off his feet. Sweat pours down my temple, my T-shirt under my sweatshirt clings to my back. His gaze narrows; his color is high as he bares his teeth.
"You pulled a gun on my wife, you bastard." He snaps his head forward and his forehead connects with my nose.
"Fuck," I yell as pain slices through my head. Blood spurts from my nose. "Why the hell did you do that!"
"You shot me, motherfucker," he growls.
I hook my leg behind his knee and yank it forward. He loses his balance and falls back. The impetus carries me along and we both hit the floor and roll over before we come to a stop, both on our backs. My chest heaves as I draw in a breath. Every bone in my body seems to hurt. A headache builds behind my eyes.
"F-u-c-k," I curl my fingers into fists and slam them into the floor, "Fuck this shit!"
Next to me, he lays on his back, his breath coming in pants. For a few seconds, we stay where we have fallen, our breathing gradually returning to normal. Finally, I force my eyelids open, ignore the pain that thumps at the back of my head and stagger to my feet. I shake my head to clear it, but that only makes it hurt more. I hold out my arm.
He raises his gaze to my face, and must see something of my inner turmoil there, for he nods, then grabs my hand. I heave him to his feet, and for a few seconds, we stare at each other.
"You okay?"
"You okay?" I say at the same time.
We both laugh, then break apart.
"I’m not sorry I punched you," he jerks his chin.
"I am sorry I had to blackmail Aurora and pull a gun on her," I offer.
"I haven’t forgiven you for it; I may never forgive you for it," he warns.
"Understandable." I shuffle my feet. "You have to understand that I was only doing my job."
"So, a cop, eh?" He scratches his chin, "Somehow, I am not surprised."
"No?"
"Nope. I never questioned that it was my duty to follow the path of the Mafia, but Xander was torn about it. It’s what happens when you are an artist, you know. He thought too much. Philosophized a bunch of shit in his head. He questioned himself a lot. It stands to reason that you would be the one to go straight."
"I am not sure I am going back."
"No?" He scowls, "Why not?"
I turn away, head toward one of the kitchen shelves and pull down a bottle of ibuprofen. I shake out two and swallow them with some tap water. Then reach for the spare bottle of whiskey—one of the few things I managed to stock up on. It seemed more of a priority than furnishing the place. I grab two glasses, pour out the whiskey and walk back to offer one to him.
"Not good to mix alcohol with painkillers," he points out.
"Fuck that," I toss back the alcohol, then pour more into my glass.
Christian takes a sip, then nurses his glass. "That’s how I used to think, before I got married. It changed everything," he laughs.
"You love her?"
"Love her?" He chuckles, "I can’t live without her. Even now, as I am talking to you, my mind is on her. I can’t wait to get back to her."
