Chapter 21: Every Tuesday

Moira's POV

"Not tonight," I told Giacomo.

He turned his face to the wall as the orderlies wheeled him away.

A doctor stitched Santo's arm in a curtained bay, twenty-two stitches from wrist to elbow, and Santo watched every one go in without flinching.

I held his other hand the whole time.

He didn't say a word about it, and neither did I.

At home, the housekeeper met us at the door.

"She's asleep," she said. "She took the whole bottle. Go to bed, both of you."

I stood in the doorway of the nursery for a while, watching my daughter breathe.

Then I went to find Santo.

He was in the bathroom, one-handed, trying to unbutton his bloody shirt with the bandaged arm held out from his side.

"Let me," I said.

"I can do it."

"I know you can."

I undid the buttons one by one and slid the shirt off his good shoulder, then down the stiff arm.

His chest was scarred in three places, and I put my mouth to the long one over his ribs.

He went still.

"Moira."

"Sit down."

He sat on the edge of the tub.

I ran the water warm and knelt in front of him and took off his boots, and then his belt, and then the rest.

He let me.

I'd never seen him let anyone do anything for him.

I washed the blood off his hand and his wrist with a cloth, carefully, and kept the dressing dry.

"You gave up the docks," I said.

"I did."

"Why didn't you tell me you would, before you left?"

"You'd have said not to."

"I would have."

I stood and took off my own clothes, the sweater and jeans I'd had on since morning, and dropped them on the tile.

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