We spend the rest of the day cleaning up.
It’s exhausting work, the kind that makes you question everything because you’re literally mopping up blood and collecting bullet casings and trying not to think too hard about the fact that people died here. People I knew. People whose families are going to get calls tonight that will destroy them.
I stick to my agreement of no bodies or heavy lifting. I clean surfaces, sweep up broken glass, and help sort through damaged furniture to see what’s salvageable. Leo keeps checking on me every fifteen minutes like he expects me to collapse.
I don’t collapse. But by the time the sun starts setting and the cleanup crews Leo called in have dealt with the worst of it, I’m so exhausted I can barely stand.
Leo finds me sitting on the stairs in the front hall, my head in my hands, trying to gather the energy to move.
“That’s it,” he says. “You’re done.”
I don’t argue. I’m too tired.
He bends down, and, before I can process what’s happening, he’s scooping me up into his arms, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
“Hey!”
“Don’t,” he says as he straightens up. “Just…let me take care of you. Please.”
I’m too tired to fight, so I rest my head against his shoulder and let him carry me up the stairs.
He’s gentle about it and takes the stairs slowly even though I know his right arm is hurting. I can see the way he’s favoring it. He’s clearly in pain with the way he grunts with every step.
Our bedroom is one of the few rooms that wasn’t damaged in the fighting. Leo lays me down on the bed gently. I feel about as limp as a noodle and I tell him so.
His laugh is soft and tired. “A noodle?”
“A very tired noodle. An overcooked noodle. The kind that just kind of…flops.” I demonstrate what I mean.
“An Italian’s worst nightmare,” he says, but he’s smiling as he sits on the edge of the bed next to me.
“Is now the wrong time to tell you that I findal dentepasta to be repulsive?”
Leo shakes his head. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. If my mother heard you, she would kick you out of this house.” His hand comes up to stroke my hair back from my face, and when I look at him I see so much love in his eyes that it makes my own eyes fill with tears.
Again with the crying. I’ve cried more in the last twenty-four hours than I have in months.
“I’m so mad at you,” I say, my voice shaking slightly. “For shoving me in that panic room and locking me away. I’m furious.”
“I know,” Leo says, but he doesn’t sound repentant. “And I’m not apologizing for it. I’d do it again. I’d do anything to keep you safe, Emma. Anything.”
I lean into his touch. “Even when it pisses me off?”
His lips quirk into a smile. “Especially when it pisses you off. Because you being pissed at me means you’re alive to be pissed. And I’ll take that every single time.”
I want to stay mad, but I’m too tired and he’s looking at me like I’m his entire world and I can’t. Plus the way he’s massaging my scalp is nearly sinful.
“You’re lucky I love you,” I mutter.
“I know.” The wonder in his voice makes my heart flip. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his fingers still running through my hair. Then, as if it finally hits him, he asks, “How the hell did youescape, anyway? I designed that panic room to be impenetrable. The lock alone should have kept you in.”
“Medical scissors,” I say smugly.
His fingers still. “Medicalscissors?”
“Yeah, from the first aid kit. It took apart your fancy locking mechanism and it only took me maybe about thirty minutes.”