His Mafia Prince
Chapter 240: How Are You, Really?

Chapter 240: How Are You, Really?

(TYLER)

It’s a strange thing to be coming to Chester, of all places, for protection while Sasha recovers. Sasha and I weren’t here when Marco’s house was raided, but I heard graphic tales about it from Aidan.

"Gloria’s used to this kind of thing," I point out. "And she has reinforced protections now on the house—the whole block, and the surrounds."

Darla’s not happy about us moving Sasha again so soon, but I want to get out of this place as soon as we can. It’s too dangerous in the city, and I trust Gloria, Marco’s wife, to keep us safe.

But when we arrive, Chester feels not unlike a battleground as well. I don’t know how the hell they’re getting away with it on public roads, but there are checkpoints on each road leading into the center block where Hillview House is situated.

Miles is driving me. Giulio is driving Sasha in a dark-windowed black van so Sasha can lie down during the journey, and so Darla can travel with him. Sophia is with them as well, and I’ve never seen someone so excited to take a drive to Chester. This is her first trial as backup protection for me and for Sasha, and she’s taking it seriously. She’ll relieve Giulio a few nights a week, nothing tricky, just to give him some time off, and she’ll learn a few things from while we’re in Chester.

For Darla, I’ve made her payment even more generous than Sasha first suggested. He might be pissing me off right now, but of course I still want the best available care for him. And Darla is the best. I know that because I’ve seen her care with my own eyes—and now that I’ve seen her grace under literal fire, too, I decided we had to have her. But she deserves a little extra Danger Pay for what she might have to face in Chester.

I’ve asked Gloria to set up separate beds in the same room for Sasha and me, with Darla just down the hall. Sasha’s going to lose it when he sees the separate beds, and I’m not keen on the idea myself...but I don’t want to be tossing and turning next to him if it causes him pain. And from what I’ve observed during our time at the hospital, every little jostle is causing him pain. Plus he’s refusing the pain medication two times out of three, and it drives me crazy to watch him suffer.

So, yeah. His macho bullshit is pissing me off.

I advised Darla that she’d probably be better off slipping him a Mickey, and she didn’t say no, exactly. She did say it wouldn’t be in line with the patient-led care that she prefers to give. I asked her if she really thought Sasha was going to lead anything but a revolution against having to stay in bed. She told me we’d figure out the pain meds once we were settled in.

Hillview House, when we finally get to it, feels so different now that I get a sense of vertigo trying to figure out where I am in relation to what was versus what’s there now. There’s a new entrance from the street that opens out underneath the house, and I have no idea how much it cost to turn what was the lower-level panic room into a low-ceilinged underground garage instead, with a whole fleet of vehicles lined up like a car showroom, but whatever it cost was worth it; it means Sasha doesn’t have to pretend to be strong getting out of the van.

He still does, of course, because Gloria rushes down to meet us, her faithful hound Conor at her side. But Sasha doesn’t want to appear weak, and refuses any help getting out of the vehicle, glaring even at me when I try to offer him an arm. I eventually insist.

Darla gives me this glance of exasperation when she comes out of the van behind Sasha, and I make a mental note to remind her later that Sasha is a stubborn asshole and whatever happened during the drive here was only the tip of the iceberg. When I turn around from helping Sasha out of the van, I find myself with a mouthful of red hair that somehow smells like sunshine and rain together, and Gloria is hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe.

"It’s so good to have you here!" she exclaims, once she’s allowed me to take breath again.

"It’s good to be here," I say, spitting out her hair.

"Does Sasha need help with his wheelchair?" she asks, looking past me with a bright, welcoming smile. I cringe, hoping he hasn’t heard. "You can take the elevator over there up to the fifth floor where your rooms are—in fact, the elevator goes all the way up to the top now, since the renovations."

"I do not need help," comes Sasha’s glacial reply. "And I am perfectly capable of walking."

"Walking slowly," I amend, turning around to pin him in place with a glare. He pretends not to hear, and keeps his eyes on Gloria.

"I don’t want to hug you in case I hurt you," Gloria says, oblivious to his coolness, "but please consider yourself hugged. Hard."

"Can confirm strength of hug," I say lightly, and then turn to Conor. "Good to see you, man." His easy smile matches Gloria’s in warmth.

"And you. All of you." I don’t hear any change of inflection in his voice as he sees Sophia hop out from where she was riding shotgun with Giulio, but his eyes do widen a little. "Please, come up into the house and get settled."

I take a swift glance at Sasha, who is pale, his jaw clenched. "Giulio—take up the luggage, will you? Miles and Sophia can help, and Gloria will show you which room. Darla, maybe Conor can give you a tour of the lower floor. Sasha and I will take a second to have a look at the new garage."

It’s as flimsy an excuse as any, but it gets everyone out of the way. I hear Miles introducing Sophia on the way up the stairs, and Gloria’s delighted interest. Then I turn back to Sasha. "You are making this harder on everyone when you don’t take your fucking pain meds or let people help you."

"I’m fine," he growls.

"Yeah, the way you’re clawing yourself up against the van there is real convincing." I go over to him and slip my shoulder under his arm. "Come on," I say. "If you’re not going to use the wheelchair and you’re not going to use the crutches, then you’ll have to lean on me."

He stays there, struggling to stay upright against the van and looking down at me, fury in his eyes. But I know he’s really just angry at himself, at his own body for betraying him.

"Well?" I challenge him. "What’s it going to be?"

"I’ll take the fucking wheelchair," he mutters sullenly, and I pull it over from where Darla set it up on the other side of the van.

"No one here is going to think any less of you, you know," I say as he collapses into it with a bitten-off yelp. "In fact, they’re all amazed by you. You took all those bullets and you’re still kicking."

He doesn’t reply, but I do see a hint of the old cocky satisfaction resurfacing in his eyes. My job stroking his ego done, I wheel him over to the elevator.