Page 70 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“I can handle Stefano,” I tell her.
Omar appears in the doorway again. “He is in the west office. He said to bring you.”
I stare at him. “I’m not leaving Heath.”
“His doctor will answer faster if he calls directly.”
“Then hand me your phone.”
“No.”
“Omar.”
“No.”
I look down at Heath, at his flushed face, at his fingers still caught around mine. Then at Erin, crying beside him and trying so hard to be quiet it makes every tear worse.
I carefully loosen Heath’s grip from my hand. Even feverish, his fingers tighten in protest.
“I’m coming back,” I whisper.
His eyelids flutter.
“I promise.”
Erin reaches for me. “Don’t go.”
“I’m getting help.” I squeeze her hand. “Stay with him. Omar will be right here.”
Omar’s expression changes by a fraction, as if being included in that promise irritates him and binds him at the same time.
Good. Let it.
I stand and follow him into the hall before I can think too long about Heath’s hand going empty.
The walk to Stefano’s office feels longer than it should.
Omar moves quickly, which is the only reason I do not start yelling at him again. He is worried too. He hides it well, but I see it in the way he checks each corridor before we pass, in the stiffness of his jaw, in the fact that he doesn't once tell me to calm down.
Smart man.
The west office is smaller than Stefano’s study and brighter, built for business instead of intimidation. Morning light cuts through wide windows and lands across a desk covered in files, a laptop, and two phones. Stefano stands behind it, one hand braced on the wood, speaking into an earpiece in Italian.
He looks up when I enter.
For one reckless second, his mouth curves.
“There you are.”
I do not have time for that voice.
“Call a doctor.”
The curve dies before it becomes a smile.
His eyes move over my face once. Whatever he sees there changes him faster than anger would have. The teasing vanishes. The dangerous amusement from the car, from the club, from every conversation where he enjoys watching me fight him, disappears beneath something colder and far more useful.
“What happened?”
