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But just as my thoughts turn to blood, Julian’s eyes flutter open, trying to focus. His gaze is weak but he’s alive. Relief floods through me like a drug, potent and dizzying. I lean over him, smiling, smoothing the hair back from his face.
“Hey, there,” I say softly.
Before Julian even registers my words, we’re interrupted. Pedretti appears in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“Leo,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “Sandro’s arrived. He wants to see you.”
“Not now.” I turn back to Julian. “Hey,” I say again softly to him. When his eyes travel over my face without recognition, I try not to panic. Face blindness, right? That’s all it is.
I hope.
“Listen, Bernardi,” Pedretti says, “I’m just delivering the message. But I can tell you right now, the Boss likes to be obeyed.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not leaving Julian, so you can tell your Boss to go fuck himself,” I snap impatiently.
“Why don’t you tell me yourself?” asks a cold, Italian-inflected voice.
I spare one glance away from Julian to confirm it: Sandro Castellani is standing in the doorway, and he doesn’t look happy.
CHAPTER52
JULIAN
I wake slowly,with a floating sensation that cushions me. I’m weightless, up among the clouds. I can swoop around Redwood Manor, take in the estate with a bird’s eye view, visit my mother’s ashes in the grove, listen in on private conversations between the staff, head back through the window into my bedroom and settle in bed as though I’d never been anywhere.
Ah. Morphine.
The last time I was drugged like this, I’d been shot. But I don’t think I was shot this time. Was I? The memories of recent events are hazy, and I have to force myself to focus on them.
“Julian?” Someone is holding my hand, but I can hear them—though their voice is distorted by the fog of medication. I struggle to make sense of the blurry shapes that fill the room.
As my eyes adjust, I see someone sitting next to the bed, holding my hand.
“Leo?” I croak out, surprised that I can recognize him. He doesn’tsoundlike Leo, and he doesn’tsmelllike Leo, but I still know it’s him, like I know Sandro is Sandro, and Jack is Jack.
But Leo is brighter than both of them. He stands out like a beacon in the fog. A guiding light.
“Welcome back,” he greets me, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dart away from mine as he blinks rapidly, but he squeezes my hand. Hard.
“Ouch,” I say.
“Sorry. Fuck, sorry.” He stops squeezing at once and hunches over to kiss my hand, turning it to pepper kisses on my palm as well.
Kissing it all better.
“What happened?” I rasp, my throat dry and sore. I cough before I can stop myself.
“Easy,” Leo says, releasing my hand to reach for a glass of water on the bedside table. “You were pretty banged up. Jack and I brought you back here to recover.”
I lie silent, trying to remember the details as Leo tries to prod a straw between my lips. I give in after a while, since it seems he won’t.
Did I kill someone? Vincenzo Esposito? No, that doesn’t seem right.
Bernardis. They were Bernardis.
It comes back in a rush: the beatings, the torture, the sheer joy of being able to open up those terrified men and watch their lives drain out along with their internal organs.
I make a noise that sounds like a growl to my own ears.
