Chapter 7 — He Remembered My Name

His hand stayed around mine long after the fire settled into embers.

Neither of us spoke.

I had expected questions. Men like Gabriel usually wanted to know what had happened, who had failed them, and what could be done about it.

Instead, he rubbed his thumb once over the back of my hand.

“Your fingers are cold.”

“They’ll warm up.”

He glanced toward my room, where the canvas bag still stood beside the door.

“Are you unpacking that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I smiled despite myself.

“You make it very difficult to argue with you.”

“You seem to be managing.”

A knock came before I could answer.

Ruth entered with his evening medication. She looked at our joined hands, then at the clock.

“He needs sleep.”

“I know,” I said.

“So do you.”

Gabriel released my hand.

I stood, but before I reached the door, he called my name.

“Matilda.”

I turned.

“Thank you for staying.”

He said it without an order hidden underneath.

That made it harder to bear.

Four days later, he walked from the bed to the fireplace.

Ruth had warned him to take it slowly. He listened until she left the room, then tried to reach the chair without assistance.

I found him halfway there, one hand braced against the wall.

“Please tell me you didn’t do that just because she told you not to.”

He looked at me.

“I wanted to sit.”

“There are easier ways.”

“Yes. Apparently, all of them involve being treated like an invalid.”

“You’ve been shot. You’re allowed a few days of inconvenience.”

His jaw tightened, but he let me come close.

I offered my arm.

He looked down at it.

“I won’t break,” I said gently.

“I know.”

Then he accepted.

He was taller than I had remembered. Standing beside him felt different from watching him cross a room with half a dozen men following.

His weight settled against me carefully, as though he were trying to protect my bruised shoulder even while struggling with his own injuries.

We reached the chair.

He lowered himself with a controlled breath and closed his eyes.

I waited until the pain passed.

“Tea?”

“If you ask whether I want broth, I’m sending the kitchen staff on vacation.”

“I was going to ask whether you wanted honey.”

He opened one eye.

“Then yes.”

When I returned, he was looking at the small white scar near the base of my thumb.

“That isn’t from the cabinet.”

“No.”

“The glasses?”

I nearly dropped the saucer.

He reached to steady it.

“Careful.”

I set it on the table.

“You remember?”

“Rossi tripped you in my foyer.”

“I meant the cut.”

“You wrapped my handkerchief around it.”

I looked at him.

His expression remained calm.

“You remember that, too?”

“Yes.”

I sat in the chair opposite him.

For three months, I had carried that moment like something small and private. I assumed he had forgotten it before the blood dried.

“I still have it,” I admitted.

“The handkerchief?”

“I washed it. I meant to return it.”

“Keep it.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I thought you would be angry about the glasses.”

“Why?”

“They were expensive.”

“So was the floor. I didn’t ask you to apologize to that, either.”

I laughed softly.

He watched me over the rim of his cup.

Then he said, “You rarely do that.”

“What?”

“Laugh when someone can hear you.”

The smile left my face.

I hadn’t known it was noticeable.

He put the cup down.

“Was that why you stayed?”

I understood immediately.

“The handkerchief?”

“What happened in the foyer.”

I considered lying. Saying anyone would have stayed, anyone would have climbed onto that bed.

But we both knew the house had been full.

“Yes,” I said. “Partly.”

“And the rest?”

I rubbed my thumb against my bandage.

“You always speak to me as though you expect an answer.”

His brow drew together.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“When you ask whether the kitchen has something, you wait for me to tell you. When I’m carrying something, you move out of the way. You don’t talk over my head as if I’m furniture.”

He was silent.

“It sounds very small when I say it.”

“No.”

I swallowed.

“That night, everyone stopped seeing you as a person. They talked about your chair and your money. Nobody even asked whether you were alone.”

Gabriel’s gaze moved toward the fire.

“I’m familiar with what they wanted.”

“I know. But I wasn’t.”

He looked back at me.

“I thought loyalty meant something to them.”

“It means something until keeping it becomes inconvenient.”

I could hear the bitterness beneath his even tone.

“What happened at the warehouse?”

He shifted in the chair, then settled.

“We were meeting a buyer. Nothing unusual. Rossi had arranged the location.”

“Lorenzo said somebody opened a door.”

“Rossi did.”

I kept my eyes on his face.

“He went outside to take a call. I saw him release the loading-door lock before he left.”

“Did you know then?”

“No. One of our trucks was due. I thought he was letting it in.”

“And the men who attacked you?”

“Corsicans. They’d been trying to take a route from us for months.”

I remembered Carmine in the medical room, insisting he hadn’t known there would be shooting.

“He told you it was only about a shipment.”

“He told me what he thought might keep him alive.”

The bluntness chilled me.

Gabriel saw it.

“You don’t have to ask about this part of my life.”

“I’m not asking because I think it will sound better.”

“Then why?”

“Because I was there when you killed him.”

His face became still.

I hadn’t said it aloud before.

“I keep remembering the sound.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

He lowered his gaze.

“You’re right.”

The admission surprised me.

After a moment, he said, “I won’t ask you to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“And I won’t pretend I didn’t know what you were before.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“Does knowing make it easier?”

“No.”

I could feel my pulse in my throat.

“But I’m still here.”

His hand moved across the narrow space between our chairs.

He stopped before touching me.

I reached the rest of the way.

We sat quietly until he said, “I knew your name before the foyer.”

I blinked.

“I know. You said it in the kitchen.”

“Before that.”

“How?”

“You leave the pantry light on until the last driver comes home. You put food aside for the gardeners when they work late.”

“That’s hardly a reason to remember someone.”

“It was enough.”

I felt tears beginning and looked away.

He waited.

“You also sing when you think the service corridor is empty,” he added.

I turned back.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“What have you heard?”

“Enough to know you forget the words halfway through.”

I covered my face with my free hand.

He laughed, carefully this time.

When I lowered my hand, he was still watching me.

Not my bandages.

Not the bruise at my wrist.

Me.

Heat rose through my chest.

“Please don’t,” I whispered.

His smile faded.

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that because of what happened.”

His fingers loosened immediately, giving me room to pull away.

I didn’t.

“You think I can’t tell gratitude from wanting you here?”

“I think you nearly died. I think I’m the person you remember from waking up. Those feelings might change.”

He took that seriously.

I was grateful for it.

“What would make you believe me?”

“Time.”

He nodded.

“Then time.”

“No promises you make because you’re frightened.”

“I’m not frightened of being alone in a room, Matilda.”

“Then you can let me leave one.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Yes.”

I stood, taking the empty cup.

At the door, I paused.

“I’ll come back after Ruth’s visit.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

I met his eyes.

“I want to, Gabriel.”

His name felt different now.

He heard it.

And this time, when I left, he let me go without asking when I would return.