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Astoria: But Sarah wants to meet you too. I’ve told her all about you.
Me: You told your adolescent patient about your fake boyfriend?
Astoria: Yes. Her and her mother.
I sigh softly.
Me: Fine. I’ll come to the hospital tomorrow.
Astoria: Okay, great. See you then.
Me: Is that why you texted?
Astoria: Something like that.
I only allow myself a moment of hesitation before texting back.
Me: If I didn’t know better, I’d think you missed me.
Astoria: Good thing you know better.
I grin.
Me: Good night, dolcezza.
Astoria: Night.
Weirdly enough, by the time I place my phone on the bedside table, my headache’s pretty much cleared, and I manage to fall asleep easily. Astoria’s face is at the forefront of my mind as I do so. I guess that explains why I dream about her.
By the time I wake up the next morning, all I have is the memory of her smile. The dream is already receding from my brain, but I’m irritated regardless. Fuck, she’s really messing with me.
The men notice I’m snippier and Christian raises an eyebrow.
“What’s up with you?” he questions.
“Nothing.”
“Really? Because you seem pissed. How’s the headache?”
“Gone,” I tell him.
“If you’re still in pain, you’d better go get it checked out at a hospital.”
“Christian, I’m fine,” I assure him.
I don’t think it’s worth mentioning that I’m already planning on going to a hospital. It’s not like I’m going there for a checkup. Plus, I’m really not in pain anymore. Christian seems appeased and he moves on to our topic of discussion.
“You think the Santos are planning something?” I ask my brother.
We’ve noticed some uprisings among members of our outfit. Small things, like carving out territory and staking claim to profits that aren’t theirs. Desantos used to be an independent group until Christian cut their leader a deal. Instead of rightfully wiping them out, we absorbed them into our family. The convergence was seamless and for the past few years, things have been pretty quiet. But Romano Santos seems to be biting off more than he can chew at the moment and it’s getting worrisome.
Christian’s jaw tightens. “It’s pissing me off. We’re facing problem upon problem. James Malone, Romano Santos. Hell, even Salvador Bianchi.”
“Calm down, Chris,” I tell him. But I can understand his aggravation.
“We’re hitting opposition within our ranks, Carlo. To the outside, it might not seem like much, but it could blow over at any time.”
“I’ll take care of Romano,” I say, but Christian shakes his head.
