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I can’t answer…
She moves close, her body against mine. She's trembling and her face against my chest is wet. I wrap arms around her, stroke her hair. “Shhh… Try not to be so afraid. You're safe here. And I'll protect you.”
I'll always protect you.
She shudders, weeping. “I'm sorry, I thought I was stronger than this.”
“You are strong, but you're pregnant, so you’re flooded with hormones, and you've just had a huge shock. Once you've adjusted, you'll be fine.”
She leans away a little, her face softening. Looking up into my face, hooking her arms around my neck, she reaches for my mouth with hers, pressing a slow kiss to my lips…
… before she withdraws once more.
My groin jolts and under my ribs, something pounds. “What was that for?”
“Just to say, Thank You.” She pauses, smiling, looking at my chest. “Is that your heart I can hear?”
Again, I don’t dare answer, settling for prevarication instead. “Katya, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
The smile fades. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Romano realised I wasn’t happy. He instructed me to bring him proof that you were dead.”
“Proof?” The vein at her neck pulses. “What kind of proof?”
I baulk at answering. “Katya, how brave can you be?”
“How brave do I need to be?” Her colour drains.
“Your tattoo…” Her mouth drops open, but I continue…
Get it over with…
Just one more shock…
“… He ordered me to cut the tattoo from you and bring it to him.”
“My tattoo?” A hand rises, sliding to the spot below the nape of her neck. “You have to cut off my tattoo?”
“You’re not out of it. Nor me. Romano told me to report back when it’s done and he insisted on proof that you’re dead.”
“He doesn’t trust you.”
“Not sure.” I shrug. “Perhaps Angelina doesn’t trust him. Either way, I have to convince Romano you’re dead. If he suspects you’re still alive, he’ll hunt you down. Me too.” I hold her by the shoulders, look her in the face. “Katya, do you want to live or don’t you? Your baby too.”
She swipes under her eyes. “Of course I do.” She drops into the chair, both hands covering her face. For long seconds, trembling, she breathes…
In… Out… In… Out…
Then sitting bolt upright, chin lifted, she looks me in the eye. “Do you have a knife? Will you do it?”
“I have a knife, yes, but it’s not really…”
“If you have to do it, I want to get it over with.”
“I understand that, but not here in this room. We’ll leave here. Find a motel somewhere. Somewhere that can’t be linked back. I’ll do it there.”
Her mouth works. “Will it hurt much?”
