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“You”—she points her fork in my face–“need professional help.”
“Alessandro will be waiting for you in front of the door at nine. You’ll be escorted by him. The rest of the team will follow in a second car.”
“Two cars. Fucking great.” She shakes her head and resumes eating.
It looks like I’m being ignored again since she keeps shoveling food into her mouth, clearly trying everything she can to avoid making eye contact with me.
“You haven’t asked what happened to my leg,” I say and see her fork still halfway to its destination.
“What happened to your leg?” she asks just before taking a bite of meat.
“Gunshot wound. Transtibial amputation.”
She lifts her head and looks at the bandage visible beneath the cuff of my T-shirt sleeve. “Seems like people enjoy shooting you.”
“It happens.”
“How many times so far?”
“That I've been shot at?” I reach for my glass of water. “I stopped counting. But if you mean how many times I've been hit—eight. Actually, nine, if you count this last one, but that one was just a graze.”
Milene’s eyes bulge. “Holy shit. Are you trying to break a Guinness World Record or something?”
I ignore her retort. “When you married me, you became a target, too,” I say. “Do you now understand the need for four bodyguards?”
“Wonderful.” She sighs and looks at my left hand lying on the bar surface. “Gunshot wound, as well?”
So, she’s noticed that I removed the glove, as I usually do before going to bed. I follow her gaze to my hand, regarding the numerous scars covering my slightly deformed fingers.
“Hammer,” I say. “The nerves in the last two fingers are damaged beyond repair. I can’t feel those. The rest are mostly okay, but I have trouble with fine motor skills.”
“Why do you wear a glove?”
“I don’t like being reminded of my weak spots,” I say. “My left hand is the dominant one.”
“What about your leg? Is that a weak spot, as well?”
“No. I have a top-of-the-line prosthesis and have adapted well. A textbook case. And it has been over seven years. Most of the time, I forget it’s there.” I reach out to take a lock of hair that’s fallen across her eyes, and tuck it behind her ear. “Does it bother you? That I’m missing part of my leg?”
“Nope.” She smiles. “But you being a lying bastard, does.”
I lean forward and take in the contours of her face. This smile doesn’t compare to the way she laughed at the coffee shop two days ago. The coffee-shop smile, I liked. I don’t like this one. It seems... angry.
Reaching for my crutches, I stand up and lean to whisper into her ear. “But I’ve never lied to you, Milene, have I?”
“Withholding the truth is the same as lying.”
“Not in my world, cara.” I place a light kiss on the exposed part of her shoulder where the T-shirt she’s wearing has slipped and head toward my bedroom.
“I have a night shift tomorrow,” she shouts after me. “I need to be at work at nine.”
“You won’t be working at the hospital anymore, Milene.”
“What! You can’t forbid me from working.”
“I just did.”
The sound of a chair scraping across the floor is followed by rapid tramping of bare feet. Just seconds later, she comes around me and stands there, blocking my path.
