Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(80)

“No. I think he’s very strong. But even the strong feel pain. Agony, probably, for someone in his condition. And the morphine isn’t working anymore. This new medicine may not even help much. But it’s the best we can do.”

After I finished, I lingered, hand on the gel patch, but then, I finally turned to Christoph Junior, keeping my eyes averted, not cowering, but trying to be nonthreatening as well. This was an unexpected development, one that made me both happy and worried.

Christoph Junior was nervous, anxious, and anything that made him suffer, made any of them suffer, was welcome. But nervous could also mean dangerous, and right now I was the focus of his attention. I stayed still, calm as he watched me, knowing that whatever he saw, was thinking, had little to do with me and more to do with another problem, hopefully a big one.

He watched me, his face unreadable save the clear anger, the slightly unhinged air that I had somehow missed before.

I wouldn’t give Christoph Junior, any of them, the satisfaction of looking away, but his scrutiny was unnerving. When the door opened, I almost cried out in relief, but the sound died in my throat when I looked at Anton, saw his anger, the expression unlike the usually unruffled look he most often wore. Even his clothing was different, the expertly tailored suit replaced with dark cargo pants and a dark T-shirt.

My gaze lingered on his shoulders, and though I told myself it was only to avoid looking at his face, the clench in my womb at the sight of the shirt stretched tight over his shoulders, clinging to his chest so that the sculpted muscles underneath wouldn’t let me believe the lie, and instead said that I lingered there for the pleasure of the sight alone.

He was my enemy. I hadn’t forgotten that, wouldn’t, but the woman inside me, the one I had neglected and ignored, didn’t seem to care.

Not even his stance, his always rigid posture just a little more rigid today, his always unsmiling lips turned down into more of a frown, his eyes, deep, almost fathomless but still bright with displeasure, could dissuade me.

“Vreau să vorbesc,” Anton said.

Hmm. So Anton wanted to talk to Christoph Junior without me around to hear. Neither of them looked at me, but I could tell both, especially him, were acutely aware of my presence. And then they were gone.

I stood in the room, the sound of Christoph Senior’s machines faint under the pounding of my own heart. He’d looked so dangerous and so desirable when he’d stepped into the room…

No, I needed to focus.

I didn’t know what was happening, but whatever it was, I was going to find out. So, trying to push down the frustrating and unwanted lust that had sprung up when I laid eyes on Anton, I creeped to the door, poked my head out, and then followed the sound of voices before common sense could stop me.

They were easy to find. Or rather, Christoph Junior’s was easy to find. He yelled, loud, the sound interspersed with an occasional low murmur from Anton. Though he was quiet, I didn’t miss the anger, near rage, in his voice.

I crept ever closer, and their voices got louder. I cursed myself for not trying harder to learn Romanian. I’d picked up a conversational phrase or two, but outside of an occasional word here or there, I couldn’t follow what they were saying.

I stood next to the door, leaning forward as if being closer would help me understand.

And then suddenly, the door opened and Christoph Junior slammed out. I shrank back from his wild-eyed gaze, my heartbeat ratcheting, but he, after a beat, passed me by.

So I turned, intent on hurrying back to Christoph Senior’s side.

“Stop.”

The single word delivered in a deceptively calm voice froze me in my tracks. My heart, which I had thought was pounding before, sped so fast, it left me light-headed. My mind screamed at me to keep moving, but I couldn’t. I was stuck, frozen by the word.

The seconds ticked by like hours, the fear that raced through my blood was only intensified by his complete silence. It was only when Anton stood in front of me that I even realized he’d moved.

“What were you doing? Eavesdropping?”

As terrified as I was, I didn’t miss the gravelly sexiness of his voice. He spoke evenly, calmly, like this was a casual conversation, maybe even a seduction.

Nothing in his voice or in his stance gave away the truth of the situation. I was in a gangster’s home at three o’clock in the morning, and I’d been caught somewhere I shouldn’t have been.

This story wouldn’t end well, a conclusion that was only confirmed when I met his eyes.

I saw nothing there. No anger, no annoyance, just infinite-seeming patience. They were eyes that told me he was content to wait for as long as it took me to slip up. Eyes that told me he didn’t trust me.