Page 52 of The Woman with the Target on her Back (Grassi Family)

It all boiled down to… he was a fighter. He was recovering. The swelling was better. And they wanted to wake him up to be able to run different sorts of tests on him. For his memory and his mobility and stuff like that.

Apparently, there were chances of him not having the same mental capacities as he used to, or having to relearn how to feed himself and walk and things like that.

I was having a hard time wrapping my head around the idea of my big, strong father who’d always been annoyingly on-the-money and sharp-witted suddenly not being able to hold a conversation, or needing me to remind him of things from his life before the coma.

But if that was what he was like, well, I would help him get the best possible therapy to get him as back to his normal self as possible.

That, at least, I felt like there were steps to take, a future to work toward.

My shop, my life, my very safety? That felt a hell of a lot murkier.

I couldn’t reopen if guys were going to break in and hurt me, or drive by and kill me. I couldn’t go home for the same reason.

Okay.

Enough.

I had to hope that my father woke up, that he knew who’d done this, and that the police could handle it from there.

Then maybe I could go back to my life.

But if that happened, what was going to go on with August?

Would he just leave town?

Isn’t that what I wanted?

This was always meant to be casual, right?

I didn’t do anything other than casual anymore?

But then why did the thought of him leaving make my chest hurt?

“God, get it together,” I grumbled to myself as I opened the drain, then climbed out of the tub, drying off, and changing into pajamas, even though it was only the afternoon.

Enough had happened for one day.

I planned to eat the takeaway August said he was going to order, then go to bed and try to sleep this whole day away.

With that in mind, I walked through the bedroom.

I didn’t smell it until I pulled the door open.

But the main area of the suite was filled with the tang of tomato sauce, with spices, fresh cheese.

“You ordered alread—“ I started as I walked through the living room, but then cut off as I moved into the doorway of the kitchen.

Where I found August with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up.

Cooking.

He was cooking.

I stood there for a moment, transfixed, watching him squeeze cheese—ricotta?—out of a piping bag and into oversized shells.

“You cook?” I asked when he finally looked up, looking surprised, then pleased as I stood there.

“Ma always does the cooking, but she taught all of us. It’s a life skill, she says. What?” he asked, head cocked to the side, watching me.

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