Page 88 of Skotos
“Dio mio, you are bleeding again? Do you ever stop?”
“No, he doesn’t,” Will deadpanned.
“I’m fine,” I grumbled. “I just need a minute to—”
“You need stitches, antibiotics, and a stiff drink, not in that order.” The man reached out to steady me, and I winced.
“I’ll take his stiff drink, thank you,” Will said.
“I said I’m—”
“I was trained as a field medic,” he cut in. “Not a nurse or a waiter.A field medic.So sit your stubborn ass down and let me work before I decide you’re too dumb to save.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, then nodded grudgingly.
Will, still holding me upright, snorted.
“Traitor,” I hissed. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”
“Too late,” he whispered, his voice as alluring as if we’d been holed up in a hotel room, naked, with only a tray of strawberries and whipped cream between us.
The man—the field medic—ignored our banter and ushered us past the bar and through a beaded curtain. We stumbled into a narrow room with low couches and old photographs staring down from exposed brick walls.
I sank onto the edge of a couch, hissing through my teeth.
“Who is this?” the medic asked.
“Will Barker,” I said. Over the years, the Allied intelligence apparatus had grown to trust Enzo, but I’d only met his nephew a few times, and the last thing we needed was to blow our own cover in the middle of an op.
The medic glanced up, met Will’s gaze, and appraised him like a farmer buying a bull for breeding. “Lucio.”
Will nodded in return but said nothing.
“Stay here,” Lucio said before disappearing through a back door.
“Lu-ci-o,” Will said, sounding out each vowel with intention. “Definitely ends in O.”
“Fuck you,” I whispered through gritted teeth.
Will shrugged. “Stop getting hurt and I might let you.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but whatever was about to fall out of my mouth was cut off by Lucio’s return. His hands were laden with a tin kit, gloves, and a bottle of clear liquid. As he kneeled beside me, unpacking supplies, Will leaned againstthe doorframe, his arms crossed and gaze sweeping the room. He appeared vigilant yet relaxed.
His expression said, “We’re safe, for now.”
I hoped he was right.
Once Lucio finished stitching me up—grumbling the entire time about field dressings done by “barbarian children with butter knives”—he slipped out with a promise of espresso and food.
I leaned back against the couch, my face slack with exhaustion, one arm bandaged and propped on a pillow. Will finally sat across from me on a creaky wooden chair, his fingers laced, knuckles white.
Neither of us spoke for a long beat.
“We’ve got two days,” he finally said.
I cracked open one eye. “Two days?”
“Let’s start with the note, the one slipped into my pocket in the piazza.” He fished it out of his inner pocket, smoothing it across his knee. The paper was fine stock, likely expensive.
