Page 96 of Theta

"Maybe one hour, or one hour and one half."

The uncle juts a chin at me. "You…" he does a finger gun with a quiet vocal mimic of a gunshot. It’s a question, asking me if I’m shot as well.

I lift my shirt and show him the wound—he chuckles at the pad stuck to my skin as he peels it back to examine the wound. He tips his head to one side, humming noncommittally. He speaks and Dante translates. "Is no so bad as your girlfriend. You? Bullet go pew, right through. Her? Still in her middle. Maybe will be…mmmm? Infetta. Make sick, sì? Or some blood go free on the inside, you know?”

"I know," I grumble, swaying dizzily on the bed. "She needs that medico, presto. Per favore."

My shitty, mumbled, American-accented Italian makes both Dante and his uncle snicker in bemusement. Then the uncle cuffs Dante's face with rough affection, muttering something private to him, and heads up topside. A moment later, the engine snarls louder as it throttles up, and then there's a gentle sensation of movement as we rock and bob away from the dock. A swaying, bobbing pause, a slow gentle tilt as we come around, and then the boat settles backward as the uncle throttles up again; minutes pass at a steady pace, and then I feel us tilt into a left turn—northward—and then he opens the throttle as we hit open water, I assume.

Dante is watching me as I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to stay awake and worrying about Story. "Riposa, mio amico americano. We are going to the medico. La tua ragazza starà bene." He scratches his temple with a thumb. "I am having a very long day, too. My English is asleep."

I sniff a laugh at his turn of phrase. “Your English is asleep." I scrub my face with both hands, and then glance at Dante. "No one can know about Story and me, okay? No one. It's vitally important. I really don't want anything to happen to you and your uncle."

“You have my promise—no one knows, okay? Okay. Riposa ora."

I let myself collapse backward, one hand pressed to my hip wound. It feels like the height of luxury to just be able to lie down, close my eyes, and just…rest.

Beside me, Story moans, shakes her head.

I really hope this is a fast boat, that Golfo Aranci is close, and that the doctor will be able to treat her.

And most of all, I hope that Dante and his uncle aren't on Pugli's payroll. I just don't know what other choice I have but to trust them.

"Stay with me, Story," I whisper. "We're gonna get you help."

“Mmm." She moans softly. "Kill?"

"Here. Right here." I roll to my right side, facing her. "I'm here."

Her eyes crack open. "Sorry."

"You just shut the fuck up, woman." I touch her lips with my fingertips. “None of that. You saved my ass."

"Stubborn."

"I know."

"Me. Not you." A soft moan that might be an attempt at a laugh. "You too."

"You were supposed to run."

"Did. Just not…away."

"You're an idiot."

"Idiot in love. You’d…ow, ow, fuck.” She hisses, arches and twists through the wave of pain, then settles once more. “You’d have done the same."

"Yeah, true."

"Where're we?"

"Dante's boat."

"Dante is your buddy?"

"Yeah." I grab her hand and squeeze gently. "You're in pretty bad shape, sweetheart. Rome is gonna have to wait. We're heading to somewhere called Golfo Aranci, sixty to ninety minutes from here."

She blinks owlishly at me, gaze scanning me, lingering on my arm; she sees the gauze wrapped around my arm, red with blood. "That's not a creased bicep." Her glance flicks to my shoulder, and then the way I'm holding my arm against my torso. "Killian?"