Page 175 of Bitter Poetry
“Know? He works hours that make doctors look like slackers, and when he’s not, it’s like a revolving door. I’m not the revolving door kind of woman, and he’s not the anything else kind of man…” She gestures toward my arm. “You’re still wearing a bandage. Is there a problem? Do you want me to take a look at it?”
Okay, touchy subject avoided by diving into my touchy subject. I tug the sleeve of my T-shirt down, self-consciously wishing I’d put a sweater on. “It’s fine.”
Her brows pull together like she’s still worried…. She is a doctor; no regular wound should need a bandage this long.
“It left a scar.” God, why does admitting that make me feel like crying?
Her face softens.
“He bit me. I can’t stand to look at it.”
“There are many excellent options to minimize scarring,” she says gently. “Maybe when you… get out of this apartment, you could look into that. And there are even topical ointments that will help it fade.
“It’s weird,” I say. “But I don’t want it gone.” It’s a reminder, a source of focus as to why I need to do what I’m going to do. “Not yet anyway. Maybe I will get a tattoo over it… Does that sound stupid?”
“No, not at all. We deal with things that happen to us in whatever way makes sense. I’m not here to judge. Goodness knows, I’ve been left with more than a few quirks.”
“The comedy mustaches?” I grin.
“Exactly. It’s cheaper than therapy and a lot more satisfying.”
Her smile is dry, but she glances down at her watch and groans. “I’m sorry, but I need to go. Leon made it clear I shouldn’t hang around and that I was to report to him immediately afterward. As you said, things are tense at the moment. I don’t want to give him any extra worry right now… But if you like, I could ask him if you could have my number so you can message me directly if you need anything.”
She hands over the bag. I peek in and smile when I see the giant bar of chocolate on the top.
I want to cry all over again because she’s kind and thoughtful, and if my plans go wrong, there’s a real chance I may never see her again. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
She hugs me. “Take care, Carmela.”
“You, too.” I plaster on a bright smile. It feels fake.
She looks torn, like she wants to linger, but with a nod, she leaves.
I’m so caught up in my internal misery that it takes several minutes to remember the recording.
I nearly knock the stupid hot pink vase over again in my haste to collect my cell phone from the back of the picture.
The keypad has ten numbers and four letters, just to make it extra complex: 12345XY in the left column and 67890ZC on the right.
The first two are easy to see—1C. The third key looks like a 4 or 5. The last one is on the right of the pad, and I can’t see exactly where she presses, but maybe middle or top. Still, that significantly reduced the combinations, and I can work with that.
My hands turn clammy around my cell phone. I need to delete the video just in case Dante looks.
I replay it a dozen more times to make absolutely sure I have got the combination as best as I can. Then I delete the video, and because I’ve reached a stage of paranoia, I go back into the foyer and double-check that nothing’s out of place.
I’m glad I do because the picture is askew.
The urge to test the numbers now, to leave before I lose my nerve, is strong. But I’ve already thought about when’s best to leave, and it’s first thing in the morning, just after Dante has gone. He usually calls me at some point in the midday to early afternoon to check on me and again in the early evening. But in the morning, right up to lunchtime, there’s a good six-hour window.
There’s just under a hundred bucks in the kitchen drawer beside a bunch of takeout menus. More than enough to cover a train back into the city center.
I’ve even thought out where to go.
Le Petit Café.
While Tony is not part of the family, I would be shocked if Ettore hadn’t sent a couple of his men around, maybe asking if he saw anyone talking to me and likely leaving him contact details if he remembers anything.
This is it.
