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injuries.”
    “Maybe.” Stefano groaned.
    “Hospital?”
    “No. I fucking hate hospitals.”
    “Home, then. We’ll get the doctor.”
    “I can’t move.”
    “You can.” Silvio leaned in and slid his arm under Stefano’s shoulders, then pulled him up into a sitting position, sliding his legs over to help him sit up on the edge of the bed. Stefano groaned, ridiculously fragile and stiff and scared and just as grateful for Silvio’s careful, sure touch.
    “Get up.” Silvio slid around him and supported him on the way to his feet. Everything hurt, and Stefano rested his weight on Silvio, catching a whiff of leather and fresh, clean sweat.
    “You might be only bruised.”
    “Doesn’t . . .” Stefano winced. “I just want somebody to shoot me . . . full of painkillers.”
    “Let’s get you home.” Silvio steered him toward the door, one arm around his waist to steady him, thank God not using any significant amount of pressure. “Come on. One step after the other. You got here on your own, too.”
    Stefano listened with fascination to the soothing words encouraging him on. He’d not expected Silvio to guide him along like a wounded friend, but it helped. He didn’t want to be too pathetic in the man’s eyes. Somehow it was important what Silvio thought of him, and he pulled himself together, small step by small step.
    Outside, the motorcycle was still waiting, and Silvio got up on it, put the helmet on, then helped Stefano get on behind him. “Drive . .
    . slow.” Because I’m not sure I can hold onto you.
    “Don’t worry.” Silvio kicked the metal stand down, jolting Stefano painfully, but before he could protest, they’d already zipped out into the street, lights blurring past.
    Stefano felt every single one of Silvio’s gear shifts, heard the machine change from low buzz to high pitch, felt the muscles in Silvio’s legs and hips tighten and release as he steered the bike, how he used his body for balance. This physical awareness of movement and speed and control was one of the most erotic things about Silvio, and Stefano rested against the man’s back, holding him lightly despite the discomfort.
    Silvio reached behind and touched him on the thigh, high above the knee, and sped up, zipping past lights and signs and a few straggling late-night people and cars like none of them mattered.
    They left the city and headed up into the hills and then the woods, the heavy pine smell the closest thing to safety he’d felt in ages.
    The gates to his estate swung open as they approached, and Silvio sped up on the last few hundred meters to the house. Several people stood outside, Donata among them, now in sensible shoes, designer jeans, and a red cashmere top that made her look regal and serious.
    She’d taken off her makeup, and even without the powders and all the dark around her eyes, she was stunning.
    Silvio braked, gently, right in front of the door. Already, hands were on Stefano, helping him off the bike, and leading him into the house.
    He looked back to see Donata exchange a few words with Silvio, and Silvio gave her one of his rare smiles. Then Donata joined the group around him.
    Doctor Simpson was there too, sitting in the vast reception room, unfazed even when somebody came in with bullet holes, and Stefano was grateful when the doctor sent out everybody for the examination.
    Stefano woke in the late afternoon in his own room, light flooding in through the large windows looking out onto the garden. Somebody knocked at the door, and he realized that’s what had woken him. “Yes.
    Enter.” Speaking hurt, but no worse than breathing. He tried to push up against one of the pillows, and managed, if painfully.
    Donata came in, Silvio trailing behind, but he stayed in the background while she moved toward the bed. “How are you feeling?”
    Stefano glanced down at the mass of bruises on his chest and wished somebody had buttoned his pajama top. He faintly remembered them undressing him, but not