She couldn’t let it go. Or rather, it would not let her go. It had clutched her like a skeletal claw for her whole adult life. Its grip was not easing now. It clamped down, a death grip, crushing her. She couldn’t endure any more of that. Not if deliverance was possible.
He cupped her face and stared earnestly into her eyes. “Imre did this to set me free,” he said, his voice urgent. “I cannot waste his gift. I cannot risk the last thing on earth that I care about. I want to make a life with you. I never dreamed of such a thing, but you have made me dream of it, and now I must have it.”
“And Rachel?” she asked.
He waved an eloquent hand. “Of course we will get Rachel,” he said forcefully. “I am not stupid. I know she comes first.”
He felt her stiffness, her unresponsiveness, and gave her an impatient shake. “Let it go for Rachel, Tamar. For us. Think of it. You are contemplating murder. The Italian police will pursue you no matter what the man has done. The Camorra will pursue you on Santarini’s behalf for killing his father-in-law. Your problems will multiply. Do not try to do this thing. I will stop you. It will fuck our only chance. And I will not risk you now, do you understand? It is no longer an option.”
She absorbed that. Everything it meant, everything she had to do. A knife turned slowly inside her chest. “Easy for you to say, Janos,” she whispered. “You’ve been cut loose. I haven’t.”
His face went tight. He lifted his head off the pillow. “I just watched the one person on earth that I could claim as family bleed to death for me. Do not talk to me of what is easy.”
She slid off his body and onto the floor, turning her back and gathered the force to do what she had to do next. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to imply that it was an easy morning for you.”
He reached for her, stroking her arm. “Tamar. My love. Please.”
She turned and looked down at the hand that held her. The one attached to his good shoulder. So strong and beautiful despite the scabbed, ragged knuckles. As skillful and tender as it was lethal.
She grabbed it, pulled it up, kissed it. Silently saying good-bye.
And swiftly snapped the handcuff that hung open from the wrought iron headboard around his wrist. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He stared at her, openmouthed, and then exploded upward, erupting in a stream of profanity that sounded like Romanian. He rattled the thing violently, twisted it, jerked. Red bloomed afresh on the white gauze of his shoulder, spotting and spreading. The surgical bandage underneath peeled half off.
“Oh, God, stop that. Don’t flail around like that,” she begged. “You’ll hurt yourself worse.”
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you treacherous bitch?”
She flinched. His anger hurt more than she’d ever dreamed, with all her defenses down. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, fogging up again, and stumbled clumsily back out of range of his lunging, grasping hand.
“Get back here,” he snarled. “Open this fucking thing. Now!”
She shook her head. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” She darted in to snatch up her clothes and scrambled out of range again to yank them onto her body. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Ah, sì?” he said viciously. “And this is why you shackle me naked to a bed? Staked out like a fucking goat for András when he comes? Oh, yes, Tamar. I can see how much you care.”
“When I come back—”
“When you come back, my balls will have been sliced off and shoved down my throat,” he snarled. “Is that what you wanted all along? Did you not have the courage to do the deed yourself?”
She realized that tears were rolling down her face as she shook her head. “No. I have no intention of leaving you like this for long—”
“Then just open it!” he bellowed. “Give me the pick kit!”
“Please just shut up for a second and listen to me,” she begged. “There’s a piece of shit Fiat 500 out in the ulivetto that belongs to me.” She dug the key out of her pocket. “I bought it from Pantaleo, the signora’s son. Here are the keys, so you’re not grounded—”
“Fuck the car!” he roared. “The cuffs, you crazy puttana—”
“I said to shut up and listen!” she flared. She crouched down and plucked the keys to the Opel out of the sodden pants crumpled on the floor.
He made a derisive sound. “Ah. So. You take my car as well?”
“You have the Fiat, so don’t bitch.” She tossed the key Pantaleo had given her onto the bed. “You have dry clothes right here, and I will leave you my cell phone, too, so you’re not—”
“Fuck the cell phone! Let me loose!” The bedframe rattled, thudded, scraped against the floor. He jerked at it, maddened.
She jittered uneasily backward. Time to beat hell out of there. “I will leave your pick set right by your hand,” she went on desperately. “And Georg’s gun. I don’t wish you any harm. On the contrary. Please believe me.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”
“Right,” she muttered. She let out a long breath and let her arm fly up, darting like a lash to spray the soporific from her barrette into his face. “After for the gun, big boy. I’m not quite that stupid.”
It was a tiny blast, the shortest her finger could coordinate. “This won’t last long,” she told him hastily. “A quarter of an hour at most. Probably less, because you’re so big. And then…you can get free.”
He stared at her, stunned into silence, and the air escaped all at once from his lungs. He sat down heavily on the bed, blinking.
His eyes were bleak. He looked utterly betrayed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, her voice breaking oddly. “Just a little head start. That’s all I need.”
He opened his mouth, tried to speak, seemed puzzled when he could not.
“I’ll buy a cell phone when I finish,” she told him. “I’ll call you after this just to see if you still want to have anything to do with me. If not, just tell me to fuck off then. You have that to look forward to.”
He swayed, wavered. She pushed him gently down onto the bed, hating the painfully hyperextended angle of his trapped arm.
She scooped up his legs again, heaving them onto the bed, and tugged at his feet to ease the pull. Then she covered him with the wool blanket, laid the gun by his hand, the cell phone, the tiny lock pick kit.
She kissed his forehead, his cheekbone, his jaw. His lips. Her last chance to touch him without getting killed, probably. He hated her now.
He tasted like the sea. Salty. Like life. It was crushing her heart.
His eyes, amazingly, were still open. Still giving her that fierce, accusing look. Fighting it like crazy. He was so damn strong.
God, how she loved that. How she loved him.
She cupped his face, kissed him hungrily once again. “I love you, too,” she said. Amazing how much easier it was to say that when she knew that he could not respond. What a hopelessly twisted, sicko wench she was. “I love you, Val Janos,” she repeated more forcefully. “I really do. I hope you can forgive me for this someday.”
On impulse, she pried the multiblade ring off her thumb, and slid it onto his ring finger.
She grabbed her stuff, hot tears streaming, and bolted.
Chapter
25