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"Axel," I mutter. "Let me guess; you are another brother?"
"The second." His features close.
O-k-a-y, what happened there? Seems like it’s a touchy topic for Luca to be born the second."Guess you’re the spare, huh?"
Luca scowls, "What the hell do you mean?"
"You know, the heir and the spare." I raise my shoulder, "You’re the spare."
His features grow thunderous. "Fuck you," he says in a low voice.
I chuckle, then wince when the pain in my head intensifies.
"Anyone else in this infernal shit-show I still need to meet?" I drawl.
"You’re not in control of your emotions; being shot at and then attacked can do that to a man," Michael drums his chest, "so I’ll forgive you this indiscretion."
"Indiscretion?" I laugh. All the muscles in my body seem to seize up, pain clouds my vision and I gasp in a breath. "What indiscretion?"
"Since you don’t seem to remember, let me enlighten you. I am the Don of the Cosa Nostra."
I furrow my eyebrows, "And that's supposed to mean something?" Something brushes up against my mind, only to fade away,
"He's only the most powerful man alive, this side of the Atlantic," Luca cautions me. "If I were you, I'd be careful in what I say to him, you—"
Michael raises his hand, "You do get a wide berth in what you can get away with. After all, you are one of my brothers."
"How many of your brothers are there?"
"Seven," Michael’s voice softens, "we are seven again, now that you are one of us,fratello."
Not sure what to make of that. I wait for something in my memory to confirm that I knew I had brothers, but there’s no spark of recognition, nothing that tells me I was aware of their existence.
"Gentlemen, I am aware of your importance, but the health of my patient is my number one priority." A doctor walks into the room. "If you don’t mind, I need to ask you to leave," he nods toward the doorway, "now."
Michael seems like he’s going to refuse, then nods. "I expect a full report on my brother, Doc." He turns and stalks out.
Luca folds his arms across his chest, as if settling in to wait.
"That goes for you too." The doctor scowls at him.
"I am staying for his safety," he nods in my direction, "so why don’t you get busy and start checking him out, because I am not going anywhere."
"But I need to examine the patient," the doctor protests.
"I am not stopping you."
The doctor hesitates, then looks in my direction. I shrug, and he blows out a breath, "Fine, can you stay out of the way until I am done, please?"
I’m not sure how much time has passed, but when I open my eyes again, I spot Theresa curled up in the only chair in the room. It’s a typical, straight-backed hospital chair. The kind that’s meant to cause as much discomfort to the occupant as possible, because that’s what hospitals specialize in, apparently. Her head is pillowed on the back of her palm. Her lips are slightly parted, and the skin of her face is flushed. She’s wearing another dress, I think, also black, with black tights and black shoes. Her hair is loose and flows over the back of her chair. She seems like a princess in mourning.Is she mourning Xander? Did she love him?I raise a shoulder, then wince; doesn’t really matter.
Either way, she is not my type. For one, she’s not as busty as the kind of women I prefer. Likely, she’s also intelligent. She looks like a woman who has an above-average IQ and who doesn’t hesitate to verbalize her thoughts. I blow out a breath. Everything that makes me run the other way. I prefer my women on their knees, or on their front, or back… Doesn’t matter, as long as they have their thighs open and mouths shut—or stuffed with my cock. As long as they take what I give them, and do as they’re told, and leave when I’m done with them.
Yep, so that’s rather predictable, and perhaps, misogynistic in a man, but hey, I don’t claim to be a saint. Also, I don’t hide behind the polite veneer that society demands of you. Scratch the surface and most men will admit that they are base creatures at heart. That what they want is a woman who satisfies their desires, who does as she is told, and who, ideally, also cooks for them. See, the last… I don’t ask them for that; it’s one of the things I’m good at. I like to eat good food, and it turns out, most women aren’t that competent in the kitchen either. Why do you think there are so many male chefs, eh? And considering I have been on my own since I turned eighteen, I had to learn to cook in order to feed myself, and I’m proud to say, I’ve eaten well.
Now, Theresa, on the other hand? She seems like the kind of woman who’d probably be able to cook as well… A theory I am not going to test because I don’t want anything to do with her. Of course, if she offers herself up to me… Well, I wouldn’t say no. I mean, I could fuck her. I drag my gaze down the slope of her breasts, the tiny waist that flares into hips which are curved enough that I can hold onto them when I fuck her from behind. My balls harden. Huh? Didn’t expect to get turned on that quickly. Especially not when the rest of my body feels like I’ve crashed into a brick wall. It’s a relief to know that part of my anatomy is working, and that I, at least, recall the kind of woman I prefer. So why the hell am I attracted to her? And why can’t I recollect what went down the day I was shot?
I sit up, wince when my muscles protest, but ignore it. If I’m going to get out of here, I need to get my body moving.
