Page 8 of Caesar DeLuca
Despite his injuries, he could still be dangerous. He could be a threat to my safety.
He turns his back on me and fusses with the top latch some more. By the stilted way he moves, he’s still clearly in no shape to even be out of bed, let alone trying to escape into the snowy night.
“Let me out of here,” he growls, jiggling the doorknob.
His impatience grows the more difficulty he has unlocking the door. He wraps both hands around the brass doorknob and tugs as though he intends on ripping it out. He’s doing nothing but exerting himself at a time where he should be resting.
“Stop that!” I scream. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Unlock the door.”
“It’s the middle of the night!”
“Unlock the door!”
“There’s a snowstorm!”
“UNLOCK THE FUCKING DOOR!” he roars with more ferocity than a lion in the wild.
The sheer volume’s intimidating enough to make me flinch then take a couple steps back. My hand instinctively reaches for the kitchen drawer where I keep my knives.
For the next few seconds, we’re both at a standstill. My hand’s locked around the handle of my kitchen drawer, my heart hammering away in alarm. He’s turned his back to me, though by the way he stands I can tell he’s on the brink of collapse.
“Will you please listen to reason?” I ask. “You’re in no shape to be?—”
“Let me…” he puffs out. His breathing deepens, a ragged sound that’s rough on the ears. “Let me go…”
It dawns on me what’s going on. He thinks I’ve taken him captive… or that he’s in some kind of trap.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, letting go of my kitchen drawer. Instead I wring my hands, faintly wondering if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’m a recluse. A loner who keeps to myself for twenty-nine days out of the month. I make my one social appearance in town and then return to my sanctuary where nothing and no one can hurt me.
Yet here I am, standing in my kitchen in the middle of the night with what has to be a violent and dangerous mafia guy.
What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Ari?!
“Please,” I say. “How about I help you up to bed? You can leave in the morning.”
He finally turns back around; his complexion’s so pale and sickly, a tremor of worry passes through me. My reservations are abandoned without even thinking. I rush over to him and slide his arm around my shoulders so I can help him back upstairs.
“You’re shaking,” I mutter. “You have a fever. You need to rest. If you keep exerting yourself, your stitches will bust and that won’t be good for anyone.”
Especially considering we’re six inches deep into a snowstorm and I can’t drive you to the ER even if I wanted to…
He doesn’t put up a fight. At least for now.
He lets me escort him, step by step, upstairs to the guest room. I ease the door open and am about to help him to the bed when he shoves me down. I tumble to the ground as he reaches into my robe for my ring of keys (he must’ve felt them standing at my side).
In the two seconds it takes me to scramble back to my feet, he’s rushing downstairs. He hobbles down the steps, almost tripping more than once, body still racking from the shivers he can’t seem to hold off.
I follow in his wake, catching up as he reaches the front door. Except I’ve stopped along the way to grab my baseball bat.
He fumbles with the locks—I keep my doors secured by six different ones—then wrenches it open to flee. But he doesn’t get very far. A brutal gust of wind blasts him in the doorway. Dizzying white flurries rain down, making it near impossible to see beyond the porch. The snowstorm has reached blizzard levels.
The realization he’s stuck seems to envelop him all at once.
He slumps against the doorframe, husking out more rough breaths. For the tough act he put on, for how hard he shoved me down, he’s clearly unwell. He’s exerted himself so much, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t rip open some of his stitches.
“Snow,” he mutters. Then he presses his forehead into the wooden door jamb. “Fucking snow.”
