Page 32 of Mafia And Maid
“N-no…” I see the moisture in her eyes before she ducks her head down and rushes to her room.
“Cut it out,” I snap. “She’s had a shock. We should be grateful that she helped and didn’t faint.”
“If she’d fainted, she would have definitely been out,” he growls. “Next to criers, the next worse thing I can’t stand is fucking fainters.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes at my brother.
“She did okay tonight,” he grudgingly concedes after a few moments.
I wrinkle my nose at the meal in front of me. The chicken is bad, and the vegetables are soggy from being cooked for far too long. Maybe the salad would have been okay had I not slung it out of the bowl for the bullets.
The whole thing is a disaster. Except for the garlic bread—that is absolutely heavenly. Crispy perfection on the outside, melt in your mouth deliciousness on the inside, and the perfect amount of garlic. I’ll definitely be filling up on this.
After eating what I can, I clear the dishes, not wanting to leave it for Rosa to do. I hide the uneaten food under some cartons in the trash—no need to hurt her feelings any more than Marco already has.
By the time I’ve finished, she still hasn’t come out of her room. I walk to the door and listen.
I can’t hear anything.
I knock softly.
There’s no response.
“Rosa?”
But still no answer.
Some emotion bubbles up in my throat—I’m not sure what—and it makes me open the door a crack.
From there I can see her in the attached bathroom, scrubbing furiously at her hands.
And as I take a few steps closer, I see the expression on her face.
“Is everything alright?” I say, trying to sound casual, but there’s a jolt through my chest. Ever since she arrived, she's been reserved and quiet, almost physically shrinking into herself to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
Her gaze darts up and meets mine in the reflection of the mirror over the basin. There’s no response to my question, just a shuffling of her feet as she reaches for the towel that is already stained with vivid red.
Her eyes are wide, unfocused, and she looks lost, like she’s somewhere far away from this room. I glance quickly at her hands, at the crimson stains still smeared across her pale skin.
“Rosa.” I keep my voice low, not wanting to scare her any further with the state she's already in.
Her eyes meet mine briefly, and she sucks in a sharp breath, but she still doesn’t say anything. She can't stop looking at her hands, and it's like the blood on them is finally bringing home the reality to her of what's just happened.
As I watch her, it’s obvious to me that I'm seeing only one thing in her right now: terror.
Without thinking, I step closer, my own heartbeat quickening. “Let me help you.” My voice is gentle yet firm.
She doesn’t resist when I reach for the towel, slowly loosening it from her grip.
I set it aside and let my arms guide her toward the basin. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” I murmur.
She follows my lead, her movements stiff. I turn on the tap, adjusting the water until it’s hot, and then, very carefully, I take her hands in mine. Her skin is clammy and ice cold. Holding them under the water, I start to rub at them with gentle caresses, watching as the blood begins to wash away and swirl down the drain like thin red ribbons. This is nothing to me, but as Rosa sees the crimson in the water, a whimper escapes her lips.
My fingers whisper over her skin, and I can feel her eyes on me, confused and uncertain. She watches me with a sort of disbelief, like no one's ever shown her this kind of care before. The thought makes something twist inside my chest.
I rub my thumb over the back of her hand. “It’s alright,” I say softly. “The blood is coming away now. Hot water is better when it’s started to dry.”
When her hands are finally clean, I turn off the water and reach for a fresh towel. I pat her hands dry, taking my time, being as gentle as possible. I find myself thinking about what kind of life she had before coming here—what’s left her so fragile and withdrawn.