I take my clothes off, shower, and toss on a bathrobe before lying on the bed, studying the necklace for a few moments, and sliding it into a drawer.
Nothing helps me to feel less crippled by not knowing what is going on.
Hey… As long as sirens don’t blare in the distance, things must be good.
His place has no TVs or landline phones. By design, I suppose.
Regardless of how tense and torn I am, lying on the soft bed helps me drift off to sleep.
I can’t tell how much time has passed when I get pulled out of my sleep by loud noises.
A door slams shut, and footsteps move across the living room.
I push upright and listen. The room goes quiet, and for a second there, I doubt what I heard was real.
Is someone in the suite?
I slide off, fasten my belt, and shuffle to the door. Slowly, I open it and look down the corridor.
I can’t see much, although a light is on, and I don’t remember leaving it on.
My steps are soft and silent, and my head is tilted so I can see around the corner when I get closer to the room.
Damaso is in, undoing his cufflinks, and as I look down, his otherwise crisp white sleeves are stained with blood.
“What happened?” I ask, moving quickly toward him.
“Nothing,” he says. “Go to your room.”
He doesn’t look at me, and I quickly notice the blood dripping from his hand.
“I can help.”
“Go to your room, Carmina.”
I bite my lip in frustration.
“You’ll get an infection if you don’t clean your hand.”
He flicks his head up and his eyes toward me, telegraphing me a stern look.
“Mind your own business,” he mutters before moving his eyes back to his sleeve.
“I just want to help.”
“I don’t need help. Besides, I didn’t get hurt. It’s not my blood. Now go.”
I sigh and don’t move.
“Why are you sighing?” he asks.
“Why did you slam the door if you didn’t want to wake me?”
He finally tosses his cufflinks on the table and removes his jacket.
“That’s a nice jacket,” I say, looking at it and thinking it’s probably ruined.
“I’ll get it cleaned if it makes you feel any better.”