Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(15)

“Can I get you anything?” I asked.

“I’d love a smoke,” he said.

As he spoke, his eyes sparked to life, so reminiscent of Anton’s that it startled me for a moment. Then he smiled, and his entire face transformed. In that moment, he wasn’t an old, frail man who was nearing his end. He wasn’t my most hated enemy. He was just a man, one looking for a favor, and to my horror, my first inclination, my strongest, was to give it to him.

“Those are bad for you,” I said, looking down at him skeptically.

“Isn’t everything?” he replied.

“This is a very bad idea,” I said as I rounded the bed and opened the top drawer where Mrs. Constantin hid her cigarettes. “If anyone finds out, I had nothing to do with it.”

He smiled brighter. “I won’t say a thing.”

For that moment, he looked happy, friendly, and I gave in to the feeling, deciding that, at least for now, I would just go with it. I chuckled and then retrieved the cigarettes and lighter from the drawer.

When I reached his side, I lifted one of the cigarettes to his lips and, after three tries, lit it. Christoph breathed in deep, a look of contentment crossing his features. He took another deep breath and then grasped the cigarette between shaky fingers.

“Not a smoker, eh?” he asked.

“I’m that bad with the lighter?”

He nodded and I laughed.

“I never picked up the habit,” I said.

“Smart girl,” he replied as he lifted the cigarette back to his lips.

He sounded sincere, and that sincerity sapped the strength from my legs. I sat then, watched him smoke until the cigarette was a nub. As we sat in silence, I watched him, searched for some hint of the monster he was.

I didn’t see it.

All I saw was the pain he tried to hide, and all I felt was sympathy, the hate that had been my closest friend nowhere to be found.

I cleared my throat, shifting in my seat. “Should I get Mrs. Constantin?” I finally asked.

“No. Let her sleep,” he said.

I nodded, then stood and grabbed a napkin. I extended my hand and Christoph dropped the cigarette butt into the paper.

“Don’t suppose I can get another?” he said, voice both hopeful and resigned.

“Nope,” I replied, resuming my seat.

He looked comically crestfallen, and I smiled. He returned the expression, and we shared a brief moment of levity.

“Pathetic,” he said after a moment, his voice showing no traces of the humor we had just shared.

I met his eyes, lifted a brow, indicating he should continue, curiosity thrumming through me.

“You know who I am?” he said.

“I…” I started and then stopped, not sure what to say. I tried again. “I…assume you’re a man of some influence.”

“Lovely way to phrase it. And accurate. I am, was, a man of influence, power. And look at me now, trapped in this bed, weak as a kitten. Not how I saw my end,” he said.

“And how did you see your end?” I asked, surprised that I was genuinely curious, and not for a morbid or gleeful reason, just interested in seeing a glimpse of another person.

He turned his gaze to me, something of a smile on his face. “Better than this. Stupid, perhaps, but true nonetheless. I should be grateful, I suppose, but that was never a strong suit of mine.”

I murmured noncommittally, not sure what to say in the face of Christoph’s vulnerability. He was expressing something close to regret, revealing a depth I hadn’t ever considered he had.

“You’re kind,” he said suddenly.

I met his eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

The words were almost menacing, but Christoph just smiled. “I am.”

“What makes you think that? I’m paid to be nice to you, you know,” I said, smiling at him, anxious to redirect this conversation, embarrassed by what he’d said, by how wrong he was.

“No. I know you’re paid to give me medicine, wipe the spit off my face, light my cigarettes when I’m too damn weak to do it myself. But really, you’re kind because it comes naturally to you,” he said, speaking with surprising strength, his tone telling me he had no question about it.

If only he knew. I was only moments removed from debating whether or not to smother him as he slept. Kindness and I had no connection.

“I think you might be wrong, Mr. Constantin. And I think it’s time for your medicine,” I said, my face burning with a dizzying mix of shame, anger, embarrassment, and the deep, deep desire to end this conversation.

“I’m not,” he responded, and I decided to let him have the last word.

A few minutes later, after I’d given him his shot, I watched as he drifted off, more rattled by this conversation than I had been in a very long time, save the first time I’d seen Anton.