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“Thanks for actually saving me, Mom,” I said, giving her a smile before watching her go up the stairs, a little worried about how steep they were after my own experience with scotch. But she didn’t so much as stumble.
Alone, I went back and finally had my shot, finding that the silence and time alone was bringing the nerves on that I’d been expecting a lot sooner.
I was nobody’s hero, but I’d rushed in to save my mom.
She was the gentlest, kindest woman I’d ever known, but she’d stabbed a man in the neck with a screwdriver.
I’d… tried to shoot someone.
Nino had actually shot someone.
It was a lot.
Nerves were to be expected.
I’d be worried if I wasn’t feeling a little shaky, if my belly wasn’t a bit wobbly.
So I didn’t try to fight those feelings. I let them flow through me as I kept my body busy, trying to burn off the traces of anxiety through focused effort.
I washed up after the food, leaving a plate for Nino in the fridge. I cleaned the counters. I found my mother’s bloody nightgown, filled up the sink, and bleached the hell out of it. I was sure Nino was going to want to just… get rid of it. But I wanted to be extra sure nothing was going to come back to haunt her because of me. And my connection to Nino.
Once I was pretty sure that it had bleached long enough to remove any traces of—what did my mom call it?—forensic evidence, I wrung it out and put it in a trash bag near the door.
Done with that, and still with no word from Nino, I paced. I drank coffee until my bones jangled.
Until, finally, I heard a beeping sound coming from the little intercom thing.
Grabbing the elevator key, I rushed over to it.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Hey sweetheart,” Nino said.
I didn’t say anything else.
I rushed out the door, stabbing the elevator key in, then riding it down, waiting for the doors to open, for Nino to step inside.
Then I threw myself into his arms, feeling his wrap me up, pulling me up off my feet as he squeezed the air out of my lungs.
“You okay?” he asked, face still buried in my hair.
“Yes.”
“Your mom okay?” he asked, slowly placing me down on my feet as the doors chimed as we reached the penthouse.
“Yes. She’s sleeping. But… yes. I bleached her nightgown,” I told him as I led him into the suite, pointing at it.
“Look at you, thinking like a mafia wife,” he said, giving me a soft smile as my belly just flip-flopped at the very idea of maybe, possibly, being that one day, of him seeing me that way. “What’s this?” he asked, tone and face suddenly dark, furious, as he grabbed my wrist and dragged my arm up, revealing all the bruises from where the guy had grabbed me.
“It’s just some bruises,” I said, trying to brush it off because his entire body seemed to vibrate with his rage. “Fair warning, I have some on my knees too,” I told him, figuring it was better for me to tell him than for him to find out for himself. I rethought that, though, when a growl—an actual growl—escaped him at that. “I just landed on my hands and knees, that’s all,” I said, running my hand up and down his arm, trying to calm him down.
“Who did it?” he hissed, jaw so tight that a muscle was ticking there.
“The guy you shot,” I whispered back. “He can’t hurt me again,” I added.
“He never should have been able to hurt you in the first place.”
“I only have myself to blame,” I reasoned.
