Page 17 of My Dark Fairy Tale
“Like the piazza in Venice?”
“Like a man,” I corrected over my shoulder. “Bruno said he is the man Rico Pietra introduced him to for the job.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You think the Pietras tried to kill you?”
I shrugged one shoulder as I headed for the stairs again. “It was four years in the making, Tina. There was no way they would not look for revenge one day. Maybe it just took them this long to get their shit together. Maybe they were just the go-between. Or maybe Bruno was lying through his teeth. At this point, we are shooting in the dark.”
She didn’t respond after that, which was good because I was done with the conversation for now. Martina was ex-military and shockingly efficient, but her corruption and decommissioning were rooted inrebelling against authority. She ignored my orders five times out of ten, but the 50 percent she did obey yielded incredible results.
Usually that level of insubordination would have been dealt with swiftly, but Martina had been my boyhood friend, and that was the kind of loyalty you didn’t grow out of.
She would die for me, and she had almost proven it one too many times.
So I knew she wouldn’t speak of the American girl to anyone, not only because it would expose too much about her capo but also because she cared for me. She would help me find thestronzowith enough awareness of my operation to target Bruno and come after me because she would want them dead just as much as I did.
In the Camorra, trust was measured in blood, and Martina had anointed herself with enough to be in my innermost circle.
Upstairs was quiet, as it always was.
I rarely spent time in this house because I preferred the estate in the countryside, and my mother and sisters only ventured into town for concerts or shopping trips. It was a luxurious home to be so infrequently used, but my father had been a frivolous man, and this had been his purchase.
I’d never been fond of it, but when I walked through the open door of the bedroom I’d given for Guinevere’s use and saw her seated against a mound of white silk pillows in one of my old white button-down linen shirts, her dark, wet hair turning the material transparent over her breasts, I thought it was the perfect backdrop to her kind of romantic beauty.
She seemed like something straight out of an Arthurian legend in the four-poster bed with the sheer curtains billowing in the warm breeze flowing in from the pushed-open French doors. Like something a man would have to earn the right to win.
When she looked up at me in the doorway, I was shocked by her smile. It was wide and without insecurity, as if she’d looked up at mewith that same smile for years, always happy to greet me. It hit me in the chest like a fist and made me hesitate in the doorway.
“Ciao, Raffa,” she greeted me, her voice still strained from her cold but much better than the painful croak it had been the last few days. “How are you?”
I leaned against the doorjamb and crossed my arms as I regarded her. “I think that is my line. You are the one who has been injured and ill.”
“I’m a bit better, thank you.”
“You told the doctor that you had a condition.” I gestured to the IV that was now unhooked and pushed against the wall. “You needed more water than you could drink?”
She winced as she adjusted herself against the pillows and moved her hair off her chest to rest on the top of the cushion behind her head. It left her breasts shockingly apparent through the wet linen, her nipples hard and pink.
I didn’t tell her to cover herself, but I tried not to stare too much lest I gave myself away.
“I have a genetic disorder,” she admitted. “Primary hyperoxaluria type 1. It doesn’t usually cause issues if I take care of myself. Basically, my body produces too much of a substance called oxalate that can affect the kidneys, liver, and urinary tract, so I have to manually flush them by drinking copious amounts of water every day, watching my diet, and taking my medicine.” She gestured to the side table, where the doctor had left her a series of pill bottles. “I was born with it, but it took them a few years to figure out why I was smaller and sicker than other kids.”
I frowned. “It is dangerous?”
“Not really. I mean, it can be.” She looked into space for a moment. “I was matched with a buddy through the medical center in France, and she passed away after a failed liver transplant when I was eighteen. But it’s not ... I mean, I’m healthy right now.”
Something twisted in my gut and went rancid. It felt a lot like guilt, even though I had nothing at all to do with this girl. Even though I wasn’t responsible for her illness or her well-being.
“Your parents let you travel to Italy alone when you are sick?”
“I amnotsick,” she insisted, some of that bite she’d exhibited on the roadside coming back. “I was born with a genetic disorder. I am not sick, and I am not dying. I’m a healthy young woman capable of traveling alone, taking care of herself, and having adventures, despite what my first horrible day here might make you believe.”
I opened my palms in surrender, trying not to let the smile loose on my face because I had the feeling it would make her even more indignant, and I was already finding her wildly endearing.
“Bene, I meant no offense. You are obviously feeling better if you are ready to go for the throat of the man who saved you.”
Her scowl disappeared as she rubbed a weary hand over her mouth. “God, I’m sorry. It’s just, the whole topic is a little triggering for me. I have overbearing parents.”
“Italian.” I gestured to myself. “Tell me about it.”
