Hot, damp towels arrived with the bread, shutting up the voice in her head. It stayed quiet while she savored antipasti, sliced meats, olives and a glass of Barolo.
“I’m ready,” she finally said. “Let’s start with the real medical story. No bull.”
Wulf stared at his bread plate and shook his head. “This isn’t the place.”
“You’ve said that before.” She popped an olive marinated with thyme and pepper in her mouth and worked the pit out with her teeth. “Ostia wasn’t the place. The car, with Joe-Jim in the trunk, wasn’t the place.” The slice of culatello between her fingers folded and clung to itself as she draped it over a piece of melon. “But we had some time to ourselves in the sewer. That would’ve been a good place to explain how you do your nifty healing trick.”
“I need more information.”
“About yourself? I don’t think so. Look, I followed you all day, broke several major laws.” A statement so absurd she almost choked on her next olive. “And I haven’t called the police because something makes me trust you.” Maybe because she’d seen his kindness with Nazdana and Meena. Or maybe because the other guys were the ones firing first.
“Is it the food?” He nudged the bread basket closer to her plate.
“I’m serious.” She used the look Sister Beatrice had bestowed on parents who skipped the Holy Names school auction. “I think the events of today have made security clearance issues irrelevant, don’t you? I’m done following that rule.”
“You have a crumb...” He touched a spot under his lower lip, where the skin made a dent above his chin. He didn’t politely look away while she dabbed with her napkin. Instead, crammed in this intimate corner behind a screen, he stared at her like she was breakfast, lunch and dinner, even though she felt more like an olive—briny, bordering on bitter.
“I won’t give up.” She took a gulp of wine to reinforce her resolution.
With a sigh, he swirled bread through the plate of olive oil. “I told you my team’s investigating heroin smugglers who use Black and Swan logistics.” He smushed the piece harder into the dish, as if stamping a passport. “The guns didn’t surprise me, but the tranquilizer was an unexpected move.” Saturated blobs broke off the bread. “Maybe I was wrong and this is personal, not army business, but either way, they’ve linked you to me.”
“But what is—” she curved her fingers to make air quotes, “—‘this?’ And why would ‘they’ be interested in you personally?”
“I thought the Ostia guy wanted to stop the drug investigation. Ditto the shooters. Clearly they’re involved in the drugs, because one of them was a former Black and Swan manager.” Abandoning the shredded bread in the olive oil, his hand covered his shoulder where she’d removed the syringe. “But that much ketamine. They have more information about me than they should. I need to know how they got it.”
This was her answer, the big one. Her fingers clenched the edge of the table as she forced herself to stay seated. “So what do they know that I don’t?”
“Coda alla vaccinara.” Cesare set a dish family style between them. It held steaming chunks of oxtail in tomato sauce studded with pine nuts and raisins.
“Saved.” The corner of Wulf’s mouth tilted as he slipped a plate in front of her.
One bite, then she’d press him again. The sauce had an underpinning of bitter chocolate she associated with Mexican moles after living in Texas. Maybe another bite. He wasn’t leaving.
“Did you have a laptop in your hotel room?” he asked.
“Unfortunately.” She scooped a forkful of the disintegrating meat and lush sauce.
“Did you have information on it about me?”
Her mother had emphasized that it was rude to speak while chewing, so she nodded.
The lines between his nose and mouth deepened. “I hope you merely raved over my excellent tour-guide services.”
She snorted and set down her fork. “Get real.” While she considered an explanation that didn’t sound clinical, she sipped her water. “I keep notes on medical situations and outcomes. Nothing scientific, no names.” Nothing like real research. Because the army had sent her to Darnell Army Medical Center at Fort Hood, Texas, after her residency, she’d never had a chance to compete with her medical school peers for a research fellowship.
“These people, whoever they are, they may want to capture me. To know more.”
So did she, but she wouldn’t kill—or die—for the answer, although she might whack him with an olive oil bottle. Apparently it wouldn’t hurt him for very long. “Look, I have a yes-or-no question. It’s really...” Dumb.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Are you...” She stared at her cutlery. The question was crazy, influenced by her roommate’s choice of escapist reading. If she looked at his face, she’d never spit it out. “A vampire?” She glanced through her lashes.
“There’s no such thing.” His nostrils spread and his lips twitched. “Or, if there is, I’m not aware.”
Fine, he wasn’t a sparkly bloodsucker, but his answer sure as hell didn’t feel like the complete truth.
The restaurant’s front door jingled.
Chapter Sixteen
Immobilized, Theresa watched Wulf leap past the screen. He’d disappeared before his chair hit the floor. She half ducked under the table, expecting shots or crashing furniture, but then Wulf laughed and she recognized an Italian greeting.
In a moment he returned with a third chair and wineglass. Behind him, a dapper man in his early seventies wearing a subtle pin-striped suit and red-patterned tie paused to eyeball her. His mouth tightened until it looked unfortunately similar to a cat’s butt.
She could guess what he saw. Her black pants, soaked and dried in place, itched. She’d scrubbed her hands and face in the church bathroom, but her clothes deserved a burn barrel. Ditto her hair. Wulf wasn’t in much better shape. Dousing his hair in the sink and drying it with paper towels had only created cleaner snarls. He’d repossessed the leather jacket to cover his blood-soaked shirt, but the coat was unable to hide the dark splotches on his jeans.
“Theresa, this is a friend, Signor Lorenzo Rizzotti. Lorenzo, Captain Theresa Chiesa, a doctor with the United States Army.”
After the mention of her profession, Wulf’s friend’s mouth fell open briefly. “I will return later, sir, when you are less occupied. And not with your...doctor.” Despite his Italian name, Signor Rizzotti sounded like the BBC announcer on her hotel room’s radio.
“Don’t act bothered. I’m happy you received my second message about where to find us.” Wulf indicated the third chair, placed between their seats. “Sit, Lorenzo, and tell us what you know.”
“Sir!” As if shocked by the invitation, the other man stiffened.
Wulf grinned sideways at her. “This is how Deavers must feel when the team gives him the ‘sir’ treatment. Lorenzo, I’m not my brother.”
Wulf had a brother? Chris Deavers talked about his family constantly, and most of Wulf’s team had wives and kids, but she’d assumed Wulf didn’t have close family. What other mistakes had she made?
“Nevertheless, your situation imparts certain responsibilities.” Lorenzo emphasized the last word.
“Nevertheless?” Wulf’s grin grew as he locked eyes with Theresa. “Who replaced my Italian butler with an English major?”
“I attended Cambridge, sir. When your brother was—”
Wulf waved his hand at the chair. “Inside joke, my friend.” He leaned forward. “You dealt with everything I left in the garage?”