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After listening to my explanation without interrupting me, he picked up his phone and made a quick call speaking to the receiver in a foreign language which I deduced to be Italian because of the many references he made to his nationality.Besides, his last name was Ricci. Nothing was a 'deader' giveaway.
"You can stay with me for a month. But a month only," he stressed. "How much do you think you'll need to get back on your feet?" he asked. But when I hesitated, he answered the question himself. "A hundred thousand? No. That's too small. You'd need to clear the mortgage. How much is that? You know what, it doesn't matter. I'll clear the mortgage and give you two hundred grand as compensation for the loss of your father. But I'll need a month to do that fully. Give me your bank account details and I'll send you a part of the money as soon as I can."
I was too stunned to even talk. This man was talking about turning my entire life around like he was just about to shop for groceries. My brain went into a mental orgasm trying to comprehend everything I could do with the money in just a few seconds of thought.
"Well, you're welcome -" Alessandro's voice brought me out of my shock "- but it's the least I could do, really." He handed me his phone and I took it, not really knowing what to do with it until I saw his bank app open on the screen.
I simply nodded and typed my account number before handing it back to him with trembling fingers. He smirked at how bewildered I was and proceeded to tap on his phone for a while before facing the screen to me again, showing me that the sum of fifty thousand dollars had just been transferred to my account. I still couldn't muster a word.
"One favor I desperately need," he pleaded.
Again, I nodded to his words.
"Can you cook? I would've but..." he motioned to his wounds. I nodded and stood up, making my way to the kitchen. I would probably have kissed his ass if he asked. Cooking was natural for me. Growing up in Zarqa, my home city, Dad used to tease mom about me being a better cook than her at just thirteen. Mom would always reply that the student was always designed to be better than the teacher. That was how development came.
Feeling my ability to speak come back, I asked him, "Is there anything specific you want to eat?"
"Anything that goes with coffee," was his simple reply as he stepped into the kitchen after me. Probably to make sure I didn’t poison him.
"I'll just do sandwiches then. Would you like it toasted?"
"The deepest brown that isn't burnt."
I moved fluidly. His kitchen did most of the work for me. The state-of-the-art equipment was so alluring; the thought of spending a month here appealed to me. I was going to try out as much of these appliances as I could to decide which ones I'd buy for my house.
In less than an hour, the entire meal was ready. He did his espresso himself though while I had plain milk to go with mine. The moment he took a bite of his sandwich, I saw his eyes twitch as the taste hit him. On the second bite, he closed his eyes to fully savor the taste.
He didn't need to compliment me, but I knew my mission was accomplished. I smiled triumphantly and enjoyed mine.
I took every opportunity to look at him. On one occasion when I decided to put my selfishness aside and stop ogling at his delicious curves, I noticed the dressing on his chest oozing fresh blood.
"You're bleeding again," I pointed out.
He took a look at it, shrugged, and went back to eating.
"You're not going to have that checked?"
He shook his head.
"Listen. There's no need to be stubborn. There's probably something in there that has been damaged. Maybe there's still a bullet that I missed. You need to go to the hospital," I insisted.
"I'd do that later, tigre. Now would you stop worrying about me and eat? I'm trying to think," he complained.
"You won't be doing much thinking if you end up like the rest of your friends at the bar," I sneered.
"Or like your dad," he shot back. I did not expect that.
"Well, that doesn't hurt," I asserted. "It's a low blow." I mumbled and took a heavy bite of my sandwich. I was still in too much denial to actually feel the pain. Besides, words never really got to me much. I was bullied enough in high school to have an immunity to words as hurtful as these and believe me when I say that I have been taunted worse.
"Why are you calling me tigre anyways?" I asked with my mouth full. The word was easy to deduce because of its similarity to its English interpretation.
"Tigress. You're female."
"Ohhh."
"And did you see the way you came at me in the bar yesterday? If I didn't have some strength left in me, you'd have ripped my flesh from my bones," he chuckled.
I blushed, remembering that incident. I remember the way I looked at him yesterday. He was really lucky. I was in no right frame of mind to think at all. I came back to my senses when I realized he was my only hope to not end up on the streets. Funny how perspective can change so quickly. One moment, he's a monstrosity, the very next day, he's a messiah.
