Chapter 5: Three Terms in the Greenhouse

Ettore gave us the greenhouse and ten minutes.

He said it flatly, in front of everyone, and Massimo opened his mouth and shut it again.

Two guards stood outside the glass with their backs turned. The door stayed open a hand's width.

It was warm inside and smelled of wet earth.

The old don's roses grew in rows along the benches, all of them pruned that morning.

Adriano stopped by the first bench and waited for me to speak.

I had a speech ready.

It fell out of my head when I saw him standing there, easy and watchful.

"You said something to me once," I said. "In the smoke."

His face didn't change. "I don't follow."

"Never mind."

I turned away, and my sleeve caught a rose.

The thorn went through the cloth and into my forearm. I hissed and pulled back.

"Hold still," he said.

He had a handkerchief out before I could answer.

He took my wrist in his left hand, the one with the scar, and turned my arm to the light.

I had touched a hundred patients that spring. This was different.

His thumb sat on the inside of my wrist, over the pulse, and it didn't move.

"It's shallow," I said. "It's nothing."

"You're bleeding."

"I'm a doctor. I know what bleeding looks like."

"Then tell me what to do."

"Press on it. Don't rub."

He pressed. His fingers were warm and dry, and a little rough along the side.

I looked at the handkerchief so I wouldn't look at him.

My fingertips had landed on his wrist, and his pulse was jumping under them.

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