Chapter 22 - Chapter 22: Sharing is kissing

💜 Nicole 

The hospital corridors smelled like antiseptic, fear, and old coffee reminding me of why I hated hospitals for the one hundred and sixteenth time. I was slumped in a hard leather chair, far away from the private rooms where the wounded were being tended to, specifically purposely far away from Grace's room. I didn't want to deal with Mama. She was there, sitting besides Grace in the hospital room and I knew she would ask me to get out if I went there. Perhaps because I wasn't injured and Grace was.

It was late already so it was pitch dark outside, but due to the hospital lights, the inside was bright. It was just me sitting in the corridor, everyone were either in the hospital rooms with their family or not in the hospital at all. The Italians were huddled around Leonardo's makeshift intensive care unit down the hall, and the Ferraros were orbiting Grace.

And me? I was here. Alone. Staring at the chipped tile floor.

I felt it again, that sharp, familiar ache of being an accessory, never an essential part of the picture. I was a loose thread in a tightly woven tapestry. I didn't belong to the Russians; I certainly didn't belong to the Italians. I belonged nowhere.

A sigh broke the silence. Papa, took the seat next to me.

I kept my gaze fixed on the floor. Neither of us spoke. I knew he had a hundred questions boiling behind his controlled exterior. Why did Leonardo shield you?, What did that gunman mean by in the bathroom?, What the hell was your relationship with Leonardo? But he didn't ask. Maybe he was being nice or Maybe he loved me too much to care.

"Why don't you go sit with your sister?" Papa asked, his voice low and gruff.

I scoffed, a quick, sharp exhale that bordered on laughter. I didn't know who I was mad at. Papa for his pretense?, or the universe for giving me the shell of a family. I wasn't mad at him, but I was furious that he knew exactly why I was out here.

"Nikolayushka." He called me in Russian, the soft version of my pet name. It was always his tell; he knew I was upset. That made me even angrier. He knew, but he never fixed it.

"Katya is there, obviously," I snapped, using her given name instead of Mama for the first time ever. but even though I had expected it to be foreign as it was the first time, it wasn't foreign, It felt proper. Distant. Like it was supposed to be.

"Yes, so what? You could—"

I cut him short, jumping to my feet, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "She wouldn't want to see me. She doesn't want to see me. She never wants to see me, and you know that, so stop acting like you don't!"

The words burst out of me, fueled by the adrenaline crash, maybe it was the fear for Grace, or the stress of watching Leonardo bleed out for me acting up making me talk to Papa like that. Or maybe I was tired of feeling like a stranger to the woman who was supposed to be my mother. I was tired of the cold politeness.

I walked out on him. Angrily. I needed air that didn't feel thick with old arguments and fresh blood.

I stormed down the deserted side corridor, the back route that led to the hospital's small, desolate exterior terrace for smokers, just before the open garden but as I neared the exit doors towards the garden, I heard low voices.

I pressed myself against the wall next to the door.

Leonardo.

He was out in the open with Marco, he was leaning against the wall, perfectly framed in the dark exterior light, a plume of white smoke curling into the air. Marco was standing near him, talking rapidly.

Marco was speaking in Italian. I didn't understand a word, but when I heard Dimitri, papa's name, I focused harder. They were definitely talking about the ambush. 

Did they think Papa had planned it?

Papa would never try to have grace or me in danger so if that was it, they were thinking wrongly.

Marco nodded at Leonardo, then stretched his hand out. Leonardo just looked at it.

"Cosa?" Leonardo asked, sharp and amused.

(Cosa: What?)

Marco sighed. "Cigarette."

Leonardo chuckled, a deep, resonant sound I'd only ever heard when he was being cruel. "I don't share cigarettes. It's like kissing the other person, and I'm not about to kiss you."

"Brooo," Marco groaned, rolling his eyes.

A small smile twitched on my face. A genuine, unbidden smile, then I realized I actually smiling at Leonardo and his cousin talking. 

"Why the hell would I be amused by them?"

I immediately hit my head against the wall in silent punishment. That small, careless sound echoed in the quiet air.

Before I could even whirl around and run, Leonardo's voice barked out, cold and dangerous.

"Esci fuori."

(Come out.)

I watched in shock as he pulled out a small, black semi-automatic gun from the back of his jeans. He was wearing just a tight black T-shirt and black trousers, clothes they must have brought him. And one would think he was unharmed because he was at the hospital and just survived being shot, He wasn't supposed to even have a weapon, was he?, He was supposed to be healing!

He lowered the gun when he saw me. Lifted his T-shirt and tucked the weapon into the waistband of his trousers. His entire midsection was wrapped in a thick, white bandage beneath the tight fabric. The sight of the bandaged wound, made my breath catch cause I replayed the shooting in my head again.

Even though I grew up in a Mafia family, I never witnessed that type of shooting before. Papa made sure to keep us away.

"Nicole?" Marco asked, genuinely surprised, as if I were a ghost.

I shook my head at Leonardo. "Why are you carrying a gun after all that shooting? You should let your wound heal. Guns are a bad omen."

Marco chuckled, but Leonardo shot him a warning glare. Marco stopped laughing and asked, his tone suddenly tense, "How long have you been standing there?"

The question was loaded. It had to be because they were talking about Papa. I didn't hear everything, I actually didn't even hear anything cause I didn't understand Italian but I wasn't about to admit to ignorance.

"All through your conversation," I said, faking a deep frown, watching Marco's face.

Marco looked serious. "You heard everything?"

I nodded, standing perfectly still. Marco reached instinctively toward his own waistband. I tensed, wondering if he was about to pull a gun on me.

"Non è una minaccia," Leonardo's voice was a low, urgent command in Italian, his hand suddenly gripping Marco's wrist, stopping him.

(Non è una minaccia: She's not a threat)

Marco yanked his arm back, looking furious. He glared at Leonardo and snapped something back in Italian, then spun around and stalked away. He looked nothing like the cheerful man I had always seen; he looked like a soldier leaving a battlefield.

I took a deep, shaky breath, processing the instant shift in mood. Mafias. They look friendly until they decide you're not.

Leonardo glared at me. "You always have a death wish. Don't say yes to something you don't know." He knew. He knew I didn't speak Italian, and that I didn't hear anything.

"Whatever," I whispered, leaning against the wall next to him, letting our shoulders brush lightly. He was so tall, radiating heat even through the bandage.

He scoffed, but didn't push me away. "What's your deal?"

"Just getting fresh air," I said, moving closer, deliberately closing the tiny gap he had created by moving a bit away from me.

He looked at the small, amused smile I couldn't entirely erase. "You're the first person who has survived this long trying to get herself killed by me."

I laughed, a real laugh this time. "Well, I'm the first person you've taken a bullet for."

He went still. "I didn't take a bullet for you. I just happened to be in the way when the bullet hit."

I looked at him, laughing mockingly. LIAR. "Even I'm surprised you're capable of something good but I accepted it so you can just accept it too."

He went quiet. Then, he changed the subject abruptly. "How is Grace?"

The sudden concern for my sister twisted something sharp and ugly in my gut. I didn't want him to care about Grace. The sheer selfishness of the thought made me refuse to look at him.

"Heard she's stable. Not awake yet."

"Heard?" he chuckled, sensing the distance in my voice. "Katya happened?"

I nodded, feeling pathetic.

"Typical Russian wives," he scoffed.

I snapped my head toward him. "What do you mean, Russian wives? Are Italian women any better? It's personal, not national."

He shook his head, looking out into the dark. "It's a Russian thing. If you want peace of mind, don't marry a Russian woman."

I couldn't believe his nerve. "Then why are you dying to marry my sister?"

He laughed. It was a full, booming sound that made me forget the conversation, the hospital, my annoyance and the blood. When he turned to look at me, he saw the effect of his laughter, that I was staring at him. He paused, the smile fading, his face serious maybe realizing that he was actually laughing. His stormy gray eyes scanned my face, landing on my lips. He visibly swallowed hard, his adam's apple bobbing, eyes still locked on my lips.

"I'm obviously marrying your sister for the alliance," he continued, his voice rougher now, staring away again, focusing his attention on everything but my face. "I'm not marrying a Russian woman out of choice. But… maybe I would marry one out of choice, too. Because she brings a lot of trouble, and let's say I don't like my peace of mind to that extent."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Maybe I would marry one out of choice too. Was he talking about me? I kept staring at him, waiting for confirmation.

"You should stop looking at me like that," he said, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. "I would read another meaning to it."

The sight of him smoking, wounded and dangerous, gave me violent goosebumps. Why was the sight of a man smoking giving me dirty thoughts right now?

"What meaning?" I challenged, suddenly feeling reckless and daring.

He didn't answer. He just held the cigarette between his lips, watching me.

I looked at his mouth, remembering Marco's joke about sharing. My chaotic mind saw a path. I leaned in, collected the cigarette from his lips, and put it between my own. He didn't move; he simply watched, his eyes intense.

I took a sharp drag, immediately coughing and sputtering. I never smoked. I stretched it back to him, and he took it, still watching, amusement finally replacing the severity in his eyes.

I bit my lip, still coughing lightly. "Let's say I just kissed you on behalf of Grace. Since sharing a cigarette is kissing."