Page 105 of The Woman with the Handcuffs

He’d shown me my X-ray right after the scan, and I could see where the original fracture had been and how much larger it had gotten. I guess there was no hope of a comfy 3D-printed cast in my future. And a lot of wrist rehab in the coming months.

But I’d been lucky, all things said and done, to be able to walk away without surgery. And only needed a tiny patch of hair shaved so Salvatore could stitch my head back together.

My stomach heaved at that thought, making me shoot up in bed, wondering if it was going to pass or if I was going to need to make a mad dash to the bathroom.

It was right then that I noticed the nightstand.

And despite everything, a giant smile cracked my face, wide enough to make my sore cheek scream.

Because Gav wasn’t the type of guy to just set up a glass of water and my bottle of pain medicine. Oh, no. The nightstand was a cluttered mess of everything he thought I might need. From a bottle of blue sports drink and my pain meds to three of my different stomach medications—including the one for nausea that I automatically reached for and popped the cherry tablet in my mouth. He also had the book I’d been reading sitting there, two of those ice packs you can shake to life, and a bottle ibuprofen.

Looking around as the anti-nausea meds went to work, I noticed there was a brand new, super fluffy blanket draped over me on top of his usual bedding. That explained the warm and cozy feeling.

He had the TV on, the droning documentarian’s voice likely meant to keep me fast asleep and maybe protect me from overhearing any noise in the apartment.

Because I wasn’t naive.

The Family was about to be very involved in my business, whereas he’d kept them mostly out of it before.

If my understanding of the situation was right, Ira was screwing over my father in some way. And screwing over my father meant screwing over the Costas.

At least that was what it seemed like.

I guess we wouldn’t have any more information until we talked to my father.

Once I was sure I wasn’t going to get sick all over, I carefully climbed out of bed and made my way into the bathroom. Where I was confronted with a reflection I barely recognized.

Despite having slept long and deep, I looked rough—pale, red-eyed, swollen, and bruised. But I supposed it could have been a lot worse, so I tried not to harp on it as I brushed my teeth. Though that bruise under my eye was aggressively staring back at me the whole time.

I remembered wanting to have a black eye as a kid. I used to think they were so edgy and cool. The reality was a lot different.

Finished, I followed the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet out to the kitchen. Where I found Gav standing dressed in slacks and a sweater, pouring coffee into my new special cup, my creamer sitting next to his hands.

I once dated a guy for eight months who never remembered how I took my coffee.

I liked how much Gav paid attention.

“Thought I heard the water running,” he said, pouring just the right amount of creamer, stirring, and holding the mug out to me. “I already put the sugar in,” he told me with a knowing smile.

“Thank you,” I said, pausing to sniff it before taking a sip. Perfect. “You know, if this mafia capo thing doesn’t work out, you could have a bright future as a barista in those trendy coffee places you detest.”

“It’s good to have back-up plans,” he agreed, eyeing the paperboard containers sitting on the stove. “French toast, eggs, hash browns, and bacon.”

“No fruit? Yogurt? Cottage… cheese,” I said, gagging a little at even the words on that last one.

Gav chuckled. “Nope. You get a grace period of me not trying to encourage you to eat anything healthy.”

“In that case, I want pizza for lunch. With garlic knots. And garlic bread. And, no, they’re not the same. And baked ziti.”

“That it?”

“I mean… I wouldn’t mind splitting some eggplant parm too. It’s healthy,” I added.

“Deep-fried eggplant?” he asked, shaking his head. “But we might need to make that dinner. This is lunch,” he said, waving to the breakfast foods.

“What time is it?”

“Eleven.”