A week has gone by and interaction with Luca has been limited to meetings about the Ivanovs and the hit. The only time I saw him separate from that was when he changed my locks. At 8 in the morning, I may add. Even then though, he barely spoke to me.
Every time I was eating dinner in the kitchen, he would come down and take a prepared plate back up to his room. He's always the first to leave the room and deliberately goes out of his way to avoid me.
It makes me seriously fucking angry for some reason, but the truth is, it's probably for the best. We have to be professional, both of our mafias are on the line. I feel safe around him, and if I've learned one thing in my time, it's that I should never trust that easily.
The oatmeal in front of me has turned an unpleasant cold as I prod at it, my appetite dwindling away as I have these thoughts.
The midnight snack didn't really "cheer me up" as Clem claims they do. I stare at the white walls peeking through the cabinets, the large window displaying the stars of the night and the moon provides the only light in the kitchen. I spin a little in the stool, turning half-way back and forth.
Feeling an uncomfortable jab into my pelvis, I pull my gun out of my sweatpants' waist and place it on the table in front of me. Propping my elbow onto the counter, I rest my head on the palm of my hand while mindlessly flicking the safety on and off my gun. Maybe it's a little sadistic, but I find it slightly comforting.
Suddenly, a small red dot catches my eye, and I watch as it trails up the marble and onto me. Then it clicks.
With no time to spare, I grab my gun and fling my body backwards, a split second before a violent gunshot sounds, the sound of glass shattering rings in my ears. My hair sweeps the tile on the floor as my head powerfully wacks against the bottom of the stool. My feet, which were previously hocked under the foot rest of the stool, are now gripping the top of the same small metal bar as I place my free hand on the tile.
Multiple guards which patrol the house enter the kitchen as I turn my body, peeling myself off the stool and standing up, gun still in hand. My head is spinning slightly as I stand up, voices all morphing together and my vision becoming blurry. I hear a familiar voice, clearly angry, I think at the guards.
I sway in my feet, my eyes lazily drifting closed and back open, feeling myself completely loosing consciousness, I feel two arms wrap around my waist and my feet being lifted off the ground, before I'm completely passed out.
***
As I begin to wake up, a very painful headache pounds in my head. Taking a few moments to adjust, I feel movement from underneath me. Jolting my body upwards in a need to survey my sorroudnings, my head begins to spin around again and black spots start to appear into my visions. I instinctively groan at the feeling while trying to blink away the speckles in my eyesight.
I feel warmth leave me as I'm lifted into the air for a moment, before it almost immediately returns back to me as two muscular arms wrap around me. Looking up, I find Luca's face looking down at me, full of an peculiar mixture of two very different emotions: concern and rage.
The feeling of exhaustion takes over me once again as my lids slowly begin to flutter closed. Suddenly, a hand gently grips my chin and pulls my head up with a finger. My eyes open again as I look up at Luca. "Stay with me, okay? You might have a concussion and you shouldn't fall asleep again."
I give him a small nod. Looking around, I find we're in a limo, black curtains pulled over the window and the driver completely shut off from us, as accustomed in all our cars. Luca is leaned back on a long couch, with me on his lap, my legs both faced the same way. I notice my sneakers on my feet now, seemingly put on while I was out. My body is turned completely to the side, Luca's large hand on the center of my back is the only thing holding me up.
