She deserves that.
She grabs her purse from the island. “I’ll run to the store and get some things for Emilio. Text me if you need anything.”She pauses mid-zip. “I can’t believe he listened to you and didn’t leave.”
I grin and flex my arm. “Told you, I’m the boss now.”
“Keep it up.” She cracks a smile. “Take care of him while I’m gone, okay?”
I salute her.
“No one ever has, you know,” she adds after a pause.
“What do you mean?”
She swings her bag onto her shoulder. “I mean exactly that. Emilio’s spent his whole life taking care of others. Putting himself last. It’s … nice to see someone finally care abouthim.” She sighs. “Evalina tried, but Nuncio said she wasbabying him. He wouldn’t even let Emilio rest when he was sick. Nuncio called itbeing a man.”
Her lip curls in disgust.
She wants to punch Nuncio in the face as much as I do.
No, probably more than I do.
My shoulders fall, my heart sinking. “That’s horrible.”
She nods. “It is, but it also made Emilio who he is. He’s guarded, cold, and far from perfect, but once he loves someone, he’ll protect them until his last breath. You may think otherwise at the moment, but I promise you, Liliya, you’re always safe with him.”
I hold in my breath to stop myself from saying I’m not sure I believe her.
“Do you know our marriage is … contractual?” I ask in almost a whisper.
“I do,” she says softly. “He told me. That’s why I’m here. He wants you to be happy here, Liliya. He just doesn’t know how to make that happen. It’s hard to create something you’ve never had before.” She wipes at her eyes, pulling in quick breaths.
“I’ll be back soon,” she adds, starting to go but stopping. “And, Liliya, please don’t run while I’m gone. This house, Emilio,I… we like having you here.” She turns to kiss my cheek before leaving.
I hear the front door close, walk upstairs, and tiptoe into the bedroom.
Emilio is sleeping. I grin at the slight snore coming from him.
Out of instinct, my attention goes to the nightstand.
The gun.
With my eyes on it, I walk to Emilio’s bedside.
“Hey,” I say, nudging his shoulder to wake him. “Let’s check your temp.”
His eyes crack open, and he blinks, as if trying to remember where he is.
I hold up the thermometer, and he reaches for it.
Shaking my head, I pull it back. “I’m a nurse, remember? Sayahhhh.”
He scowls. “I need my phone.”
“Later. Now, open up.”
His scowl deepens as he pushes himself up and leans against the headboard, and I stick the thermometer in his mouth.
I read the screen when it beeps. “Your temp is 101. You’re officially benched for the day. Mafia work can wait.” The memory of what Maggie told me—about him not taking sick days—will make me hold my ground even more now.
