Page 124 of Caterina
Just like I told Teresa I would.
That does not mean I liked it.
I didn’t ask for her. I didn’t send for her. I didn’t let myself call through the wall or request an update I did not need just to see whether she would answer.
I stayed in bed. I did my job from the room. I briefed my team by phone or when they came by. I took reports. I reviewed perimeter changes. I gave instructions.
And I did not once ask where Caterina was.
Now the twenty-four hours are over.
Officially.
I am out of bed.
Getting dressed was a slow, humiliating process that took twice as long as it should have and involved more pain than I will admit to anyone. The dark sweatpants were easy enough. The black T-shirt was worse. Lifting my arm pulled at the stitches, and for a second, I stood bent over beside the bed, breathingthrough the kind of hot, white pain that makes the room narrow with black bleeding around the edges.
I managed.
The shirt is on. The bandage is covered. My side feels like it is on fire, but it is not bleeding through.
Good enough.
My boots are by the chair where someone placed them after confiscating them yesterday. Elena, probably. I am halfway through tying the second one when Teresa makes a disgusted sound from the bed.
“You are insufferable.”
I glance up. “You’ve mentioned.”
“I thought repetition might help.”
“It hasn’t.”
She came in while I was putting on the first boot and now sits cross-legged on the mattress
Cristiano is beside her, wedged safely against her thigh with one of her hands always near him, even when she’s glaring at me. He is sitting with that unstable baby posture that means he might tip over at any second.
Six months old. Dark hair in a wild little mess. Deep Conti eyes that make the resemblance to Vito impossible to ignore.
He has a soft fabric ring clutched in one fist and is currently chewing on it with total commitment.
I only saw him briefly the night I got into town.
He woke up briefly after dinner, but had fallen asleep again shortly after Teresa fed him. This is the first real time I’ve spent with him.
It is strange.
Not because I don’t like children. I don’t have a problem with them. They are unpredictable, loud, structurally fragile, and terrible at following instructions, but none of that is their fault.
Cristiano looks up from his ring and stares at me.
Very serious.
Like he is taking my measure and finding me questionable.
Fair.
I look back at him.
