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Still, I pull at Corrado’s hands. Even underwater, I’m screaming, and it’s hard to see what the hell is going on since my hair’s floating around my body like the Medusa’s many serpentine hairs.
Finally, Corrado lets go.
I grab Drago by his arm and drag him to the surface. Corrado’s nowhere to be seen, and even if he were, I doubt he’d help me. Drago is heavy, and I struggle to keep him afloat until I reach the edge. When I do, I dunk under and, with all my might, push up on his back, trying to get him over the edge of the pool and onto dry land.
I fail miserably.
I try again.
And again, and I can’t get the man out.
Fourth time’s the charm. When I climb out, I accidentally kick him with my leg, and he tumbles back into the water.
“Leave him,” Corrado says. “He’s dead.”
That only makes me want to work on Drago’s revival even more. This time, I seize the man’s arm and hoist him up like a bag of potatoes, and when I do, I feel his heart beating. Yes!
I swim toward the shallower part of the pool (not sure why I didn’t think of it before), and when I can stand, I prop him up on my shoulder and shove him out.
The man rolls onto his back.
I kneel next to him, move my hair out of my face, and lean over him to breathe into his mouth.
Sleek dark leather shoes appear in my line of view. When I look up, I’m staring down the barrel of Corrado’s golden gun. “You put your mouth against another man’s mouth, and nobody is leaving here alive.”
“His heart is beating.”
“I know.”
“You know he’s not dead?”
“I didn’t have time to strangle him. You went psycho and got in my way.” He points the gun at Drago’s head.
I slap Corrado’s wrist. “No. No, please. Just let him breathe.”
“He can breathe. On his own. Though he’ll wish he couldn’t.”
I glance down at Drago, whose lips are turning blue. I have to breathe for him. I don’t know how else to help him.
“Don’t test me,” Corrado says. “I don’t share.”
I flip Drago onto his side, make a fist, and keep hitting between his shoulder blades while also talking to my deranged husband. “I’m psycho? You’re psycho!”
“I beg to differ. I’m not the one trying to revive a man who tried to kill me.”
“Whatever.”
Corrado chuckles. “Whatever is your argument?”
Before I can answer and tell Corrado how I don’t find any of this funny enough to chuckle at, Drago coughs out water. He heaves onto his belly, then props up his weight on his elbows, head hanging down.
There’s a gun tucked into the back of his pants. Corrado takes it and surprisingly doesn’t point it at the man.
Drago looks up and wipes his mouth, then rips open his shirt. He kneels and spreads his arms, speaking what I’m sure is his native tongue, which sounds suspiciously like Russian.
There are star tattoos on his shoulders. Also, other tattoos, notably a double-headed eagle that somehow also manages to appear as a double-headed dragon. It’s twisted.
“What’s he saying?” I ask Corrado.
