Page 50 of Last Shot

‘Grey?’ Nella said finally. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

He wondered with a jolt what it was about him that appeared not all right. He nodded because it was all he was able to do. Questions, memories, emotions from the past few hours were churning sickeningly in his head, and he didn’t think he could pull any sort of coherent answer from them if he tried.

Thankfully, Concetta, the cook and head housekeeper who’d been looking after the Barbaranis longer than him, longer than his father – Grey was almost certain she had been carved from the same stone as his cottage – came to take them all back up to the house. She was an Italian witch who cast her spells over everyone, making them fall in love with her food and never want to eat or drink anything else so they would wither and starve if they ever left her. She would comfort them, she would care for them, let them cry into a bowl of tagliatelle. That was not Grey’s job. He had to remember that.

‘Mange,’ she said, stretching her arms wide to cajole them up to the mansion like a mother goose collecting her goslings. Even Vittoria, who’d been fussing over Luca, angry that he’d waited for her and not run to save himself.

As she walked away, Concetta turned to Grey. ‘Someone keeps leaving the front door open.’

Someone also just tried to blow up the family we work for.

As though sensing his inner dialogue, Concetta added stiffly, ‘AfterI’ve locked it.’

He thought of Arnold’s smug bird massacre. The uneasy sensation he’d got as he left Max in his cottage – the feeling of someone’s eyes on him.

‘I’m sure it’s just one of the kids,’ he said.

‘Kids?’ Concetta barked. ‘The eldest are basically the same age as you.’

Grey didn’t like the way Concetta looked at him sometimes. She was one of the only people besides Giovanni and Vittoria who’d known his parents as they were before he was born, and he didn’t like people having pieces of him that he wasn’t sure he properly understood himself. Every time Concetta cast her olive-coloured eyes towards him, he felt as though she could see the shape of something he’d buried a long time ago.

‘I’ll check the locks,’ he promised her.

Grey exhaled slowly as Concetta followed the Barbaranis up the staircase, content in the knowledge they’d be fine with her and Jett, who would get the bottle of limoncello from the kitchen cabinet and pour everyone a glass except himself. Grey breathed out again, deeper this time. They were all alive.

As he watched them go, emotion reared like a wave he’d had his back to. There was no stopping it. No pulling it back to shore. He swallowed it down, diving under, hoping it wouldn’t take over and smash his head on the rocks.

From above the surface, a voice called his name.

He walked up the wooden staircase.

‘Hey.’ Her voice was like a viper, lashing at him. Trying to sink her fangs deep into his skin. Poison spreading.

She followed him out of the winery, to the fields where the tyres of Lang’s ambulance disguised as a multicoloured kombi van had flattened the grass.

‘Hey!’

Instead of fangs it was her hand, grabbing him around his bicep, nails digging in. ‘Greyson, look at me.’ It was the same voice she must have used to get criminals to put down their weapons. Hands above their head. Blow into the tube.

She’s the criminal, he reminded himself.

She’s the one who noticed the backpack ...

He let invisible hands mould his face into a blank expression. Confident his eyes were dry, he looked at Max properly for the first time since he’d almost crushed her to death.

Her arms were scraped like his – red trails of corrugated skin twisting with the black tattoos. Apart from a bit of soot and a couple of scratches on her face, there were no injuries from the explosion. Assessing her for any damage he might have inflicted when he fell, his eyes trained quickly over her chest (didn’t want to think about the last time she’d forced his eyes there). He’d forgotten how small she was. How had he not hurt her? Did she have a cracked rib? Had Lang checked her properly?

Shit. He’d been staring too long. Hadn’t said anything. He had to say something ...

‘Greyson.’ Her hand twitched as though she was going to hold it out to him but then thought better of it. ‘I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

He blinked.

‘My old partner had it,’ she said cautiously, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘He was almost stabbed to death by a guy hopped up on meth. Cal was the first responder. He’s found the right people though, to help him with it.’

‘Sorry,’ Grey said, crossing his arms, ‘help him withwhat?’

Max blinked. ‘PTSD,’ she said slowly.

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