Page 20 of Petrichor

Me

Tonight

That same night I’m fucking pissed. My inquiries about the Corettis and Enzinos have yielded fuck all. Luca and I need to use more drastic methods, but how do we do it without raising suspicions?

I’m placing two containers filled with parmigiana in the fridge when I hear a heavy thud coming from the entrance. And then another. Something hitting my front door with force.

I grab my 9mm Glock from the black marble counter and silently make my way to the entrance while sliding the safety off. Another noise against the door followed by a whimper. Sounds like someone is punching-knocking and hurting themselves in the process. How the fuck did they get up here?

I glance at the front door camera before putting the safety back on the gun and placing it on the sideboard. I yank on the door knob and taken by surprise, Fly stumbles inside, his large shoulder bag dropping on the floor. I feel an absurd pinch in my chest at the disheveled sight of him. His lower lip is busted, his right eye and cheek bruised, and caked blood is under his nose. His hair is a mess, my midnight blue shirt he’s wearing torn at the shoulder, and I can see cuts and more bruises on his collarbone and neck.

What the fuck happened to him?

He walks all wobbly toward me, limping. One arm is wrapped defensively around his chest, the other outstretched, hand holdinga wrinkled envelope. “Your money,” he says, wincing as blood starts to drip out of his cut lip.

He pushes the envelope against my chest, and takes a step back but abruptly loses his balance and falls into my arms.

I let the envelope drop and move my hands to get a better grip on his hips. He buries his nose into my chest and exhales slowly. His palms slide up my neck and his fingers thread through my hair making me tense.

“Fly?” What the fuck is he doing? I grab his biceps to push him away, but he’s surprisingly strong and doesn’t budge. I could force him off, but I decide to slide my forearms under his butt and lift him with the intention of taking him to the sofa. As I carry him there, his head pulls back and his fingers move to my cheeks. The deeply lost, watery look in his strikingly light eyes touches me more than anything ever has.

“I stained your shirt.” His voice cracks just before his eyes roll back and his body goes limp in my arms.

“Fucking hell!” This guy has been a source of trouble from the first moment I met him.

At least he’s so light there’s no risk of dropping him. I lay him down on the sofa and check that he’s still breathing before contacting Doc and telling him to come to my place. He’ll get here in a few minutes.

I drop the cell on the coffee table and turn to Fly again. His straight locks are draped over the sofa’s edge like a waterfall of sunshine. His knuckles are bruised like he fought back against whoever reduced him to this. The first button on his shorts is open, and he’s wearing no leggings. I can see two long scratches marring the pale skin of his left leg and finger marks on his thighs.

Was he…? The thought makes me grit my teeth. But why I am feeling this upset for a stranger is a fucking enigma.

I walk to the kitchen to get a towel and fill a bowl with warm water. I sit on the coffee table and place the things near me. The shirt is ruined, so I start unbuttoning it; it reveals more marks and some old scars. A couple of them look like they were serious judging by the size of the jagged discolorations. Those are testimonies of a hard life. I have similar marks on my body. Some of them went much deeper than my skin, they pierced my bones and stained my very soul, changing it permanently.

After mynonnodied and before Don Massimo adopted me I ended up in a group home. That dark year marked the end of my childhood.

My phone rings, is Diego letting me know about Doc’s arrival. After a minute I open the door to him. Doc is in his sixties, bald, with a round belly and red cheeks. He gazes at Fly’s face and body with an intense stare.

“Move him to the table or the bed, I need more space to check him properly,” he says, without batting an eye. He’s seen much worse in his forty years working for the family.

I slide my arms under Fly and lift him again, bridal style this time. I look at the sturdy wooden table near the fireplace, but I decide on the bed. I walk to the extra bedroom, which only Luca has used a couple of times in the past. Doc turns on the light on the nightstand and then focuses on his bag, taking out medical stuff.

I lay Fly down on the pearl-gray sheets. He looks more defenseless than usual, black and blue, bloody and fragile. When Doc comes near me, I know I have to move and let him do his job, but there’s something bothering me. Fly’s appearance is delicate, but he’s packed with feistiness under that pretty face of his and he doesn’tback down—that's probably why he’s all battered up. Seeing him like this feels…wrong.

“Do you know what happened?” Doc asks.

“No. He passed out.”

He’s checking Fly’s pupil reaction with a small penlight, then the inside of his mouth. He shifts the two sides of Fly’s shirt open to look at his torso, the lace covering it makes Doc stop for a moment, but soon his gloved fingers resume their examinations on his ribs and stomach—skipping the chain around Fly’s waist. He checks the bruises and cuts one by one.

After a few more minutes, he sighs. “Looks like the kid was attacked. I’ve seen these kinds of scratches and fingerprint bruises before.” He points at the marks on Fly’s inner thighs. “Do you want me to use a rape kit?”

My hands turn into fists. I shake my head. Fly should make that decision. Not me.

“One of his ribs seems bruised. But there’s nothing broken. He doesn’t have any bumps or bruises on his head, so he must have lost consciousness due to stress or anxiety. I’ll give him a sedative to make sure he sleeps all night. The injuries need to be cleaned first. Here is the ointment for the cuts and a cream for the bruises. You know the drill.” He lifts both and places them back on the nightstand.

“You do it, Doc,” I order him.

“Can’t. Have another patient. I can come back and do it when I’m done.”

---