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“Take me to him,” I say firmly.
“Not yet, he’s still being checked over at the hospital.”
“I don’t want to stay here,” I protest, but he cuts me off.
“Right now, this place is the safest to be. Bringing you to Rocco might make things worse. We don’t know who is watching.”
“How did this happen?”
“They must have been following his routine to know where he was, and when he is normally alone.” He sighs. I can feel the panic radiating from him even though he doesn’t convey it in his tone or expression.
“Something happened today,” I start slowly, realization hitting me.
“What?” He asks glowering.
“Somebody slashed my tires in the city today, and I think I was followed back here,” I say biting my lip.
“Did you tell Rocco?” He asks indignantly.
“No.” I sigh. “I thought I was being paranoid, but now—” I say, trailing off.
“Even if you were being paranoid, it wasn’t your call to make,” he snarls, banging his fist on the wall. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling my eyes well up with tears.
“I’ll have to let Rocco know,” he says as more men come into the house, and he starts directing them.
“Okay, please let me know when I can see him,” I say wiping my face with theback of my arm.
“Sure,” he says distractedly as he pulls his phone out.
My tears freeze on my face as everything seems to hit me all at once, Rocco has been shot and it’s possibly my fault.Definitely my fault, by the way that Damon is eyeing me. He’s right, I was being naïve. How many coincidences occur in the lives that we lead? I go back into the bedroom and sit cross-legged on my bed, like I used to when I was a kid fearing a telling-off from Ma. Except this is so much worse. Minutes feel like hours as they crawl by slowly. Men enter the house in throngs, and in the quiet moments all I can hear are lowered voices and radio interference. This doesn’t feel like home anymore.
It was the tires screeching that made me duck in the first place. Surely, if you were a fucking assassin the whole point is that you’re meant to have the gift of sneaking up on people.
Why am I complaining? That’s the fucking question. Men have tried to kill me since I could tie my own shoelaces, but this is the first time in a long time that they had almost succeeded. The doctor tells me several times that if it was only an inch to my right, it would have gone straight through my heart. They say your whole life flashes before your eyes before you die but I didn’t see any of that.
“What do you mean somebody slashed her tires?” I say, my anger rising within me as Damon speaks to me on the phone.
“Sophia said that when she went to leave the city her tires were slashed, and she swears someone followed her home too.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She said she thought she was being paranoid.”
“And?” I say as anxiety drums up within me.
“She’s a little shaken up, but she’s more worried about you. She’s crying,” he says uncomfortably.
“Did they hurt her?” I say incensed.
“No, I mean she’s crying about you. She’s probably upset. I mean, she is your wife. What did you expect her to be doing a conga line?” Damon says exasperatedly.
“Where is she?”
“In the house, she’s well protected.”
“Good,” I say hanging up.
