“I tell you what,” I start, spooning her and wrapping an arm over her stomach. “I’ll make you come twice when I do fuck you. What do you say to that?”

“I say fuck off.”

I let her go. “Suit yourself.” She pulls the blanket up over herself. “But I do have one question.”

“What?” she snaps.

“Don’t you want to wash your dirty little fingers?”

She flips me off with one of those fingers, and I chuckle before laying my arm across her again and tugging her close, this time not letting her go when she tries to wriggle free. I’m thinking instead not about being fucked up for wanting to sleep with the enemy but just about being fucked in general because what my brother and I set out to do has gone sideways. It’s shifted so completely that as I listen to her breathe softly beside me, all I can think is I can’t imagine going back to a life before her. A life without her.

14

AMADEO

Bruno and I head to Tilbury’s office after Bastian falls asleep. The clinic is attached to his house, which lies on several acres of land about an hour and a half outside the city. Knowing the sensitivity of his specialty, he’s apparently used to meeting with clients at odd hours. And given the fact that just an initial appointment with the good doctor costs several thousand dollars, which he’ll happily apply to your treatment, he’s motivated. Although I know Bastian wanted to be here, it would have set off red flags for the doctor to see him in his state, so it’s Bruno and me.

“The clinic itself houses up to six patients at a time,” says the doctor’s secretary. “The high walls ensure privacy, and they also keep our patients safe.” Locked in is more like it given the security at the front gates.

She points out the patients’ quarters, which Dr. Tilbury will take us through later, apparently—so much for privacy—and we’re buzzed in through another set of doors that lead to a space set up more like a house than a clinic.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll let Dr. Tilbury know you’ve arrived.”

Bruno and I look at each other, but before we even have a chance to sit down, the door she disappeared through opens, and a man in his late fifties stands before us in a thousand-dollar suit, his jet-black hair with a patch of well-positioned gray coiffed to perfection, not a single line on his face. I glance at Bruno and wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. This man must keep his plastic surgeon on retainer.