Grinded (The Invincibles 3)

“Pia Deltetto.” Before I could say anything more, she stood, walked around the desk, and took my hand.

“You’re Pia. I wondered. He talks about you sometimes in his sleep.” It was the same thing his friend had said earlier. “You must be very important to him. I’ll waive the rules this time.” She winked and walked back behind the desk.

I slowly opened the door to his room, relieved to see he was asleep. As quietly as I could, I sat in the chair by his bedside. If nothing else, I could look at him, breathe the same air he did. He shifted his body slightly and opened his hand. There, in his palm, rested the heart-shaped stone I’d sent to him.

I must’ve dozed off in the chair, but woke when I heard voices coming from the hallway. I grabbed my bag and sneaked out as quietly as I could, praying Mylos didn’t wake up.

I checked the time; it was one in the morning. I’d been in the room with him for almost three hours. Most of which I spent sleeping.

The street was still as I walked across, to my hotel.

I’d get a good night’s rest and maybe try to see Mylos again tomorrow. Knowing he still had my stone, gave me hope that he didn’t hate me quite as much as I believed he did.

I opened the door to my room and flicked on the switch. The light on the phone was blinking red, indicating I had a message waiting. I called the front desk.

“Ms. Deltetto, yes, we have several urgent messages for you.”

“From?”

“Paolo Viticcio. He said it is imperative he speak with you as soon as possible.”

Without returning Paolo’s call, I knew. I could feel it in my heart. My beloved papà was gone.

9

Grinder

Two Years Later

London, England

After two years in the Koblenz Burn Center, I was finally home.

A little over a month ago, I’d had my last skin-graft surgery, at least for now. There was always the chance a particular area may need more work. Risk of infection was also something I dealt with on a daily basis, although at the six-month mark of any graft, odds of that happening went down significantly.

With each graft, the pain got worse instead of better. What used to work well enough to alleviate it, no longer did.

With the exception of Carson, my caregivers encouraged me to seek and try alternative pain management. How the hell was I supposed to meditate my pain away when it hurt so bad I couldn’t think?

I’d made plans to meet up with Edge at the local pub at half-past four, but showed up an hour early. I was on my second pint by the time he arrived.

I stood when I saw him walk in. The stress of seeing me again was evident in the lines on his face.

Neither of us spoke as he approached. We embraced with the requisite back slaps and then stepped apart.

“Fancy a pint?” I asked, motioning to the bar.

“I wouldn’t mind something stronger to chase it.”

“I’m right there with you, mate.”

He looked left and right and then rubbed the back of his neck.

“What’s bothering you?”

“Would you mind if we went to my flat?”

Knowing the pub was a regular stop for many who worked at SIS, I immediately understood his concern. “Not at all.”