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Trusting them to handle the next part, I get into the elevator and press the button for the ground floor.
25
Domenico
The private elevator opens to the penthouse foyer, and she’s there.
My wife’s sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, wrapped in one of those soft blankets she likes. Her eyes are half-closed, but they snap open the second the elevator chimes.
Before the doors finish opening, she scrambles to her feet, the blanket falling away from her shoulders. “Hey.” Her voice cracks on that one word.
“Hey, baby,” I reply, my eyes trailing all over her.
She’s been crying again. I can tell by the puffiness around her eyes, the way her lower lip looks slightly raw, like she’s been biting it. She takes one step toward me, then freezes. Her eyes drop to my hands, my shirt, the dark spatters across the front of my jacket.
“Domenico.” My name comes out sharp, panicked. “Are you hurt? Why are you bleeding?”
Ah, fuck. In my haste to get back to my wife, I never thought to make sure I didn’t have any blood on me. Kira’s hands are on my chest before I can answer, pushing the jacket open, fingers pressing against my shirt, searching for wounds.
Her touch is frantic, uncoordinated, her palms flat against my sternum, then sliding to my ribs, my stomach. She’s checking me the way someone checks a child who’s fallen—all urgency, no method.
“It’s not mine,” I say, catching her wrists.
She stops moving but doesn’t pull her hands away. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the blood spatter across my shirt, dark and dried to a rusty brown.
“Whose is it?” she asks.
“It’s not mine,” I repeat as I let go of her wrists.
Her mouth tightens, skepticism flickering behind her eyes. She’s too smart for half-truths, even when she’s hollowed out by grief.
I step past her toward the bedroom. “I’m going to shower.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, following behind me.
“Mm.”
The bathroom light is too bright. I turn it on anyway and start peeling off my clothes. Jacket first, then the ruined shirt, balling it up and dropping it in the hamper where Donna will find it tomorrow and know better than to ask questions.
As I finish undressing, I feel more than see Kira hovering in the doorway. Since she isn’t saying anything, I ignore her and walk into the shower.
It only takes a few minutes for the water to be hot enough to burn. I stand under the spray with my hands braced against the tile and let the water sluice the blood from my skin. It runs pink at first, then clear, swirling down the drain in patterns I don’t bother tracking.
My muscles ache. My knuckles throb. The split skin on my right hand stings when the water hits it, but the pain is distant, secondary to the relief of washing the shit off my body.
When I step out, Kira’s still there. She’s sitting on the closed toilet lid now, the blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes track me as I grab a towel and dry off.
That’s when she sees my hand.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, her tone accusatory.
“It’s nothing.”
She stands up. “Sit.”
I don’t argue. I sit on the edge of the tub, towel around my hips, and watch as she crosses to the cabinet and pulls out the first aid kit. Her movements are slow but deliberate. She’s doing this the way she does everything lately—mechanically, like she’s following instructions written on the inside of her skull.
The kit opens with a click. She pulls out antiseptic, gauze, and medical tape. Her hands are shaking. Not badly, but enough that the bottle of antiseptic rattles against the edge of the sink when she sets it down.
