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"Oh, for fuck's sake, just get on with it!" he interrupted my speech.
"For your rudeness, I'll make sure to make it hurt," I muttered darkly and picked up a pair of cotton wool with the scissors and dipped it in an open can of disinfectant to clean the wound.
After more than an hour of torturous labor, I had the two bullets removed. All through the entire process, my hands were shaking, and I was surprised that I didn't make any extra lacerations with the clinical scissors.
"All done," I told him. He was surprisingly calm all through the operation, making only a few grunts when my scissors went further than they should have.
He examined the dressing and tried flexing the area around the wound tenderly. He nodded to show satisfaction and stood up.
"This will be your room. Sleep now. We have quite a lot to talk about tomorrow." He opened the door to a room that looked better than any hotel I had ever stayed in. I moved like I was controlled by his voice and entered the room. "Thank you," he said, referring to his wound dressing. "And I'm deeply sorry about your father." With that, he left me for his room which I assumed would be ten times as luxurious.
Without giving much thought to my surroundings, I strode over and climbed into the massive bed, finding comfort in the extra soft cushioning that almost completely engulfed me. Settled in, I pondered over his last words before he left me. He apologized for the death of my father. A memory I hoped to postpone till the next day. I didn’t stop the unprecedented tears that began flowing. I didn’t make any noise. Tears just flowed from my eyes. Tears I couldn't stop.
I was totally fucked.
The only reason my father had died was that he was in that club at that point in time. If I wasn't there, he wouldn't have died. No matter who I blame, the rich guy or the guy who actually killed my dad - who was probably dead by now as well, the only person to really blame for his death was me. The same way I blamed himfor mom's unhappy death was the same way I blamed myself for his direct death.
I tortured myself with this realization as the tears continued to flow freely from my eyes. When they finally stopped, I was too numb to even think. At this point I just let the darkness swallow me, hoping with all sincerity, not to wake up the next day.
Chapter 3
I really didn't want to wake up. The comfy bed and thick sheets made it even more difficult to do. If this was death, I'd gladly have accepted with no complaint. Unfortunately, my phone, which I miraculously managed to keep with me through the cascade of last night's events, wouldn't stop blaring the nine o'clock alarm. It was a Saturday, so I never needed to wake up early. Besides, I budgeted my time to accommodate adjustments to the hangovers from my Friday night outings.
I would have flung the device at the wall in frustration if it wasn't so far from me. Making me roll miles to the other side of the bed I had put it on before passing out last night. I found it'd be easier to actually just slide up my screen and turn the damn thing off than going through the stress of damaging it. I doubt it would go off on the first throw anyway. I loathed how strong these things were becoming nowadays.
I dragged myself to the bathroom and did my morning business. I didn't trust the toothbrush I saw on the shelves and settled for smearing the strip of paste on my finger as an alternative. It was when I stood in front of the mirror, placed behind the modern-styled ceramic sink, that I noticed through the mirror's reflection, a full stack of unopened toothbrushes on a higher compartment in one of the shelves that I missed. Still, I used my finger to finish the business, enjoying the feeling of softness in my mouth compared to the thousand scrapes of bristles.
Since I didn't have anything to change into, I didn't take a full shower. I just rinsed my face and my legs up to my knees - as much as my combat pants could fold - and exited the bathroom. That was when the full beauty of the place hit me. Like the living room, everything was either gray, white, or black. The comforter was black, but the sheets were white. I didn't ruffle the bed enough to see the actual color of the mattress. There was a giant screen plastered on the wall opposite the bed, almost the span of both my arms if I stretched them out sideways.
I walked around the bed to the room entrance and turned back to look at the room. The furniture was exquisite. The bedside table extended into a mini cupboard, with bean bags in front of the bed, big enough to sleep a small person, which gave the room a sense of fullness. What captivated me the most was the giant window that let in just the right amount of light. I moved over to it. As tall as I was, I had to stoop to rest my hands on the bottom lintels when I opened them. The view from here was breathtaking. We were at least twelve stories high and even though there were some taller buildings around, I could still see a lot of roofs that stretched to the horizon.
Wow!
I wonder what a guy like him did to afford a place like this. I was no realtor, but I'd say this room alone, without other parts of the house would spill into millions in purchase costs. Speaking of which, he did say we had to talk this morning. I rushed out of the room, hoping I wasn't too late, and met him at the dining table. It was small - able to seat six people at most - but I assumed that was because he didn't have many people around. He was engrossed with something on his phone and seemed not to notice me as his hands flew over his phone screen. When he spoke, not taking his eyes off his phone, it startled me a bit.
"Good morning."
Embarrassed a little, I gave a shy greeting before sitting down in the farthest seat from him as possible.
"How's your wound?" I inquired. He answered with a grunt, which I took for positive because of the slight nod his head gave while still immersed in his phone. He finally looked up and his face gave me chills. His hair was curly, but not so much, and his eyes were silver in color. I was sure those were contacts. There was no way someone would have such a beautiful eye color.
"Is there anything bothering you?" he sought to know, and I realized it was staring shamelessly into his eyes.
"I uhh... no actually...I was trying to..." I stuttered but eventually shut up when I concluded that I couldn't ask him so blatantly about his eyes and there was no possible excuse that'd makeenough sense. "I'm sorry." I added solemnly. My cheeks were redder than the bandage I wrapped around his arm.
If he noticed my shame, he ignored it and introduced himself. "I am Alessandro. Alessandro Ricci." He stretched his right hand for a handshake, and I had to stretch to take it.
"Sienna Asghar," I said curtly.
"I knew you weren’t American. Something about your face tells it. And your character. A lot of women this pretty would not be as demure."
I laughed at his weird complement. "Oh, trust me dear, when I tell you that the only reason I'm this chill is because I know you have the potential to kill and get away with it."
That made him chuckle.
"So," he said and kept quiet, looking intensely at me. He relaxed into his chair and played with his phone, spinning it clockwise and counterclockwise, but his eyes were on me. I had to look away slightly to avoid getting lost in them again.
"You said you can't go back to your apartment. Why?"
