I lever myself upright, wincing. The bullet wound in my side pulls tight, a constant reminder of how far I’ve fallen. Used to be that I could take three rounds to the chest and still wake up swinging. Now, look at me—hiding in the Tuscan countryside, sneaking into Ariel’s room every night like a teenager because I’m too weak to do anything else.
I peel myself off sweat-damp sheets, exhausted and depleted.
“Anyhow,” Kosti says as I rise, “I’m sick of you moping. You and Ariel not looking at each other—it’s exhausting.”
No, exhausting is spending every night buried inside of her. When I’m there, I think of nothing. When I’m not there, I think of being there. My whole day is spent dreaming of the stolen hours we can f**k and forget.
Fuck to forget, rather. The s*x is a way of keeping heav
