Chapter 98

“Just some bruises,” I whisper, gesturing towards my ribs and stomach. “Nothing worse.”

Christian’s jaw clenches, hard, at the thought of what they could have done to me – the terrors to which men put women when they want to hurt them deeply. But Christian steels himself, reigning his emotions back in. “Come on,” he says, stepping closer again and wrapping an arm around my waist, tugging me down off the sink and pulling me close to his side. “Let’s feed you and get you a drink. Then you can shower and we’ll put you to bed. Okay?”

I grin up at him, and nod, quite liking how carefully he’s taking care of me at the moment. Who would have thought it – the Mafia King, making quite a nice nursemaid.

But even as I think that I have to wonder – is he the Mafia King anymore? I haven’t read any press in a while, but…I mean, what is Christian’s place in his world now that he’s done this?

I bite my lip, worried again, as we make our way into the little open kitchen and Christian begins to sort through the cabinets.

“I’m afraid it will be all canned stuff tonight,” he murmurs, pulling down some cans of stew. “We can go into the little shop tomorrow and get something fresh.”

“That’s fine,” I say, immediately moving to the cabinets and sorting through them, looking for bowls and plates and cups.

“Iris,” Christian says, laughing and reaching out a hand which he places gently on my forearm. “Seriously, go sit down – I’ve got this. Tonight, I’ll take care of you, okay?”

I hesitate for a second, glancing back towards the cabinets. “I don’t know if I can do that, Christian,” I say, laughing a little and shaking my head at myself, at how ridiculous I am. “Just sit still? Not help? You might as well ask me to chop my own head off.”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes before nodding once and opening a cabinet on the far left, taking out a bottle of old whiskey. “Fine,” he says, setting it before me. “You pour, little bartendress. And then sample, and make sure that it’s an acceptable vintage.”

I smirk at him, nodding and accepting his terms. And then we bustle around the kitchen together, Christian opening some simple cans of beef stew and emptying it into a pot on the stove as I take down cut crystal whiskey glasses – god, does he have these in every house he owns? – and begin to pour us a drink.

To my surprise, Christian also moves to the freezer and takes out some frozen bread. He murmurs some brief comments about how it might be stale, but then shrugs and puts it in the oven to heat it up. That done, he turns to me, and I hold out his glass of whiskey.

“You’re going to get drunk, sipping on this with an empty stomach,” I say, smirking a little.

“Good,” he says, sighing and taking a hearty sip that makes me raise my eyebrows. “I want to be drunk. I am done with today.”

“Well then,” I say, lifting my glass an casually toasting his. “Drink up, Romano.”

He smirks at the name and then gestures towards the little table – just big enough for two, really, even though there are three little chairs. Together we sit down while dinner heats up, facing each other across the pretty antique wood.

Christian sighs as he sits, letting his head hang a little while his fingers spin his glass, his mind clearly still spinning along with it.

I let him sit in his silence for a long moment, sipping at my own drink, studying him. Taking in the broad lines of his shoulders, the solid build of his chest. I smirk a little, thinking that he wasn’t built for a little table and chairs like this. No, Christian – he was built for a throne. But still, even if that’s true, I can see why he likes a little cottage like this – simple, peaceful, an escape from his life.

Perhaps sensing my humor, the smirk on my lips, Christian flicks his eyes up at me. “What?” he murmurs, a smile starting on his lips as well.

I just shake my head at him. “Christian, what are you going to do?”

The smile falls away from his face and he drops his head again, not looking at me.

“Chris,” I sigh, reaching out and wrapping a hand around his wrist, making him face this even if he doesn’t want to. “Come on. This is real.”

“I know it’s real, Iris,” he sighs. “I just…honestly, I’m not sure I have an answer to give you. Not yet.”

“Well, talk to me about it,” I offer, squeezing my fingers a little, urging him. I want to help him, after all – and I’ll never be able to help him the way that he helped me today. But, well, I can listen.

He just shakes his head, and, sensing his distress, I immediately go to work – I can’t help it. I stand and cross so that I’m standing behind him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, giving him a squeeze and dropping a kiss to his dark head. Then I turn, and start to spoon the stew out into two little bowls.

“Iris!” he scolds, turning towards me when he realizes what I’m doing. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you –“

“Oh, shut up, Chris,” I sigh, rolling my eyes and glancing back at him so he can see me do it. “I’m going to make you start talking as soon as I get back to the table, so go ahead and gather your thoughts while I serve the food you bought and prepared.”

He laughs at me but lets me take charge of this little bit that I can control. I set the bowls on the table and bring the nice, crispy, slightly-stale bread over as well, accompanied by a little dish of olive oil for dipping. I prefer butter but, well – this is an Italian household.

“Okay,” I sigh, settling back down into my seat and pointing at Christian with my spoon before taking a lick of the soup. “Spill, Chris. What’s going to be the fallout from this?”

“Well, Bambi,” he says, his voice deliberately too-easy as he lifts his spoon and eats a mouthful of stew. “It’s not going to be good.”

He stops there, though, looking back down at his soup and starting to dig in without saying any more. I narrow my eyes at him, because I can see what he’s doing. “Christian,” I scold.

“What?” he asks, lifting his too-innocent eyes to mine.

“You’re doing that thing I hate,” I accuse, pointing at him again with my spoon. “Where you ice me out.”

“And you’re doing that thing I hate,” he returns, a little playful. “Where you push for details that you don’t need, that are just going to put you in danger.”

“Chris!” I half shout, half sigh, slumping in my seat. “Seriously!? After all of this!?” I spread my arms out, encompassing everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, everything in the past week, everything in the past couple of months.

“Yes, Iris!” he insists. “I’m still trying to protect you!”

“Christian,” I groan, shaking my head at him. “We’re beyond that. We’re now on the run from your family and at least two other powerful mafia Dons, we’re hiding at the beach, we’re eating your apocalypse provisions. Can you just admit to me that this actually is your apocalypse? And just let me in? There’s no protecting me from it anymore! We’re already at the end of the world!”

I gesture over at the dark windows, where you can’t even see the beach or the sea anymore. Indeed, in this quiet little kitchen, it really does feel like we’re the last two people on earth.

And still, he won’t talk to me?

God, what’s it going to take to get him to let me in?