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“Is that a bullet wound?”
I almost smile. Sometimes I think the woman has a clear grasp on what it means to be in my world, and then she goes on to say shit like this and I realize she has no fucking clue. She’s naïve. It’s kind of cute and refreshing.
“Never seen one before, Evans?”
She shakes her head. “How badly did it hurt?” she breathes.
That wasn’t the question I was expecting her to ask. I hesitate before replying. “Like hell. It hurt a fucking lot.”
“Is it bad that I’m curious about how painful a bullet wound could be? Like, realistically, do you think it hurts worse than period cramps?”
Her face is so fucking serious right now, I’m not sure whether to laugh or not.
“How the hell would I know what period cramps feel like?” I ask, flabbergasted. “Is that a real question?”
“What?” She shrugs. “Period cramps can be pretty painful. Every month, I’m on my knees begging for some relief. Now that I think about it, I’m probably getting my period next week,” she muses.
My eyes drift over her face, wondering what I’m going to do with this woman that definitely has no fucking filter.
“Do you always say whatever’s on your mind?”
“Usually,” she says with a smile. “So, breakfast tomorrow? And you’ll leave your stuck-up, annoying attitude in your bed, where it belongs.”
I’ll say anything to get her out of my room at this point.
“Yes, now please leave.Buona notte.”
She stares at me blankly.
“You don’t speak Italian.”
“Nope.”
I sigh softly. “That might need some rectification. Good night, Evans.”
After successfully seeing her out of the room, I head to my bed. I haven’t had a good night’s rest in a year. Not since my father died and I took over as Don. And even before then, my nights were haunted by the faces of the people whose lives I stole.
* * *
Daniella’salready waiting for me in the dining room when I arrive downstairs. It’s pretty clear she just woke up. Her red hair’s in a messy bun on top of her head, she’s wearing pajama shorts and a black T-shirt, and she has yawned three times since I walked in. I give her a look.
“You could have slept in,” I tell her, taking a seat at the head of the table.
She shakes her head. “And miss you before you left for work? We have an arrangement, Christian, and I plan to hold up my end of the bargain.”
“Alright, then.”
I’m still not sure why she’s so interested in making our relationship work, but she’s trying. The least I can do is reciprocate.
“The answer is no, by the way,” I say in response to the question she asked last night.
Daniella blinks in confusion. “What?”
“The bullet wound question. Getting shot is significantly more painful than cramps. Although that might vary from person to person, considering you mentioned something about having painful periods. Childbearing, however, seems to be more painful than a gunshot. I’m sure it was definitely more painful than mine. I barely felt it in the moment, but it hurt like a bitch afterward—”
“Christian,” she calls, stopping my explanation. “How is the talk of bullet wounds normal breakfast conversation?”
“You asked,” I say on a shrug.
