Page 72 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
“He is going to be fine,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know fever. I know exhaustion. I know panic. I know what a body looks like when it is fighting and what it looks like when it is losing.”
“That isn’t as reassuring as you think.”
“It is true.”
“I don’t need true right now.”
“Yes,” he says, stepping around the desk. “You do.”
He comes toward me, but not too close. For once, he seems to understand the wrong kind of closeness might make me fracture instead of fight. His voice lowers, not soft exactly, but steady enough to hold onto if I were the kind of woman who reached for things.
“Heath is hot. He is frightened. He is exhausted. That’s dangerous enough to take seriously and common enough not to panic over before the doctor sees him.”
I swallow.
My throat hurts.
“He wasn’t sleeping,” I say.
“I know.”
The words land wrong.
My head snaps up. “You knew?”
“Omar told me he had nightmares.”
“And no one thought to tell me?”
“You had known him less than two days.”
“I’m his aunt.”
“You are also an FBI agent trapped in my house and looking for every reason to hate me.”
“I don’t need reasons.” I want to hit him.
Stefano’s gaze sharpens. “Do not mistake triage for indifference, Maya.”
The words stop me.
He picks up a small black case from a drawer I didn't notice and comes to the door. “Let’s go.”
“You’re coming?”
He looks at me like the question is stupid. “Yes.”
We walk back faster than before. Omar meets us halfway with a thermometer and a bottle of children’s fever reducer from somewhere in the house, because of course Stefano’s home has medical supplies organized well enough that his men can retrieve them inside two minutes.
Useful.
Infuriating.
When we enter the bedroom, Erin is crying harder.
