When she came around, he had put the gun away and was holding her in his arms, wiping her face with a warm damp cloth. She choked on the taste in her mouth and dry-heaved; he grabbed a trash can he’d brought over and held it under her mouth, but she didn’t do much more than drool in it. He wiped her chin.

“Better?” he rumbled. She’d never noticed it before, but his eyes were green with brown rings. “You shouldn’t drink so much, Velvet.”

“Thank you, Betty Ford. Hey, sorry about the mess, I—I got the flu. My friend’s been taking care of me.”

Paolo took a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to her. She didn’t have to look to know which article he was pointing to.

“Yeah, I know, it looks bad—but honest, Paolo, swear to God, I didn’t—this guy, he fucked me over, I told him not to use my name, honest.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Paolo looked sad, as much as his blocky massive face could. “Ming’s unhappy. Very unhappy.”

“I know.” She swallowed hard and looked at the bedroom door; it was open. “Um, where’s my friend? Robby?”

“In the living room.”

“Uh-huh. Um, sorry, but is she, like, okay? You didn’t—”

Paolo stared at her with his eyebrows bunched together like hairy spiders, green eyes the color of old grass. He shook his head.

“Oh. Good. So, she’s, she’s okay. Right?”

He didn’t nod. Oh, God.

“Do I have to go back? Is that why you’re here?” More blank stares. She felt a shiver in her back pull her shoulders tighter. “I have to go back, right? Take my medicine?”

“Medicine,” he repeated. “No. Don’t go back.”

He took the gun out of his jacket pocket and looked at it through slitted eyes. She held very still while he thought about it.

After a minute or so, he looked up and said, “Don’t go back, Velvet. She wants to kill you.”

She opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a damned thing to say, just watched him fiddle nervously with his gun. He finally jammed it back in his pocket, threaded his fingers together, and stared down at them.

“You look nice,” he said at last. “Real nice. Except for the bruises.”

“Story of my life,” she whispered. “Thank you, Paolo. Really. Thanks.”

He nodded, little delicate bobs of his head that looked crazy on a guy his size. She fingered the fringe of her leather jacket and watched him from the corner of her eye.

“You want something?” she asked. He stopped nodding. “For, you know, old times’ sake? If you want, I’ll do it.”

His head moved slowly, like it didn’t want to, until he was looking her in the eye.