Indebted to the Mafia King
Last Chance

Eleni

I yank on the stubborn zipper of my suitcase to no avail. It won't shut. I release with a sigh, and the top flops open to reveal the picture of Dante and Christos I stole from his room. I swallow. I know stealing it is stupid. I don't really know either man in this picture. But it just feels wrong, leaving this image behind in the shadow of what happened here.

I want to remember them like this. Innocent and young, before the Mafia pulled them under.

I don't have any pictures of myself. Mom packed those up and took them with her to Greece. I wonder if I'd even recognize the girl I used to be.

My phone vibrates, and I curse. That's my ten-minute alarm. If I'm not in the car on the way to JFK by the time the last one goes off, I'm going to miss my flight. Gianna convinced me to talk to Dante, but he's making it a hell of a lot harder by not being here. For lack of anything better to do, I grab a pack of the sticky notes I've started going through like water and attempt to write a goodbye note. Dear Dante,

Too formal. I crumple the note and throw it on the ground.

Dante,

Ugh, maybe an introduction is just stilted. I start again. I'm sorry-

The door opens downstairs, and I throw myself at my suitcase to give it one last try. That has to be Seb, here to pick me up, and the last thing I need right now is him making fun of me as he closes it easily. I can just give him whatever message I was going to write Dante. I guess.

I've just gotten the zipper closed when I hear the thud. Somehow, over the past two weeks, I've learned enough to know that's the sound of a body hitting the ground. I abandon my suitcase and race out of the room, scenarios flying through my head. A pocket of Lombardi soldiers I missed. A couple of Irish Kings, the bastards who have been sniffing around old Lombardi territory. One of the dozens of crews I haven't learned yet.

I don't expect to see Dante lying in the middle of the foyer, spread eagle with his eyes closed. I also don't pause. In seconds, I drop to my knees at his side.

"Dante?" I jostle his shoulder a little.

No response. Oh, god. Like I'm living a memory, I check his body for wounds. His shirt is soaked with blood. I grab on either side of the buttons and tear.

His eyes flutter open. "Skipping foreplay?" His drowsy smile alerts me to the fact he's still alive, at least.

I ignore him. His chest looks like a railway map of stitches, and I can see at least half a dozen that are busted. It's obvious he fell, maybe even off the stairs. Where the hell was he? What was he thinking, two weeks out from a near-lethal shot to the chest? As I look closer, I see more wounds. A bruise blossoming on his chin. Scrapes on his knuckles. He looks like he was in a fucking fight.

"What the hell happened to you?" I snap.

"Fuggin'...redheads..." he mutters.

He's barely lucid. And he reeks of wine and beer, neither of which he really drinks. More blood pools on his chest, and I decide it doesn't matter what happened. I stand and sprint up the stairs for the first aid kit, cursing myself for not keeping one downstairs too. I just need to patch him up enough to get him to a proper doctor. At least I learned a little in the weeks before...whatever we are now.

With the pack in hand, I run back down to his side. "This is going to hurt."

"F-fuck you," he mumbles.

I roll my eyes and pull out the isopropyl alcohol. When I dab some on his skin, he jolts upward in pain. "Wha-why?"

"I warned you," I say tiredly. "Lay down."

That, at least, he obeys. I pull the broken stitches out of his skin as carefully as I can, though he still swears the whole time. My mind keeps drifting back to my first night in his bed, the first time I tried to patch him up, and I keep yanking it back. I don't need to be thinking those thoughts now. Even as I run my fingers over his scarred skin and map the wound he took to save me.

Staring at the stitches, it's impossible to deny how close he came to death. Dr. Domino is a miracle worker. I find myself thanking him as I work. Whatever else happens, I don't think I want Dante dead.

When all the stitches are out, there's not much else I can do. I haven't nearly practiced enough to try stitching him myself. So, without any better ideas, I start applying little wound-closure strips to the stitches that popped. The rest seem stable enough, and he can get fixed tomorrow. My phone vibrates. Five minutes.

"Seb will be here soon," I say. "I'll have to leave for the airport."

"You're not leavin'," he slurs.

I recoil. "What?"

He grabs my hand, a hazy look in his eyes. "Called Seb. Told 'im...fuck off."

My mouth falls open. Of all the presumptuous, shitheaded things-

"What the fuck do you mean? Why would you do that?" I demand.

His eyes flicker closed again. I finish patching him up and storm to the kitchen for a glass of ice water, intending to throw it on Dante to wake him up. When I return, he blinks up at me and smiles like I'm his favorite person in the world. Ice. Numbness. I know how to do that.

I don't throw the water on him. I do sit on the stairs a few feet away and seethe while he wakes up properly. Finally, he levers himself up on one arm.

"That's not how I meant to tell you that," he says clearly. He rubs the back of his head and grimaces while glances at the stairs I'm sure he just fell down.

"Fuck off," I reply. "Did you cancel my flight too?"

"We need to talk," he says by way of answer.

I shake my head. "You just hit the floor. You probably have a concussion. Even if I wanted to talk to you, now's a crappy time. God, why would you throw yourself into a fight when you look like you just lost one against a lawnmower?" "We need to talk," he repeats stubbornly. "About Christos."

"I have "

He holds up a hand. "And if after that you still want to leave, I'll charter my private plane for you."

I clutch the glass of water and stare at him for a long moment. "Fine."