I woke up sore.
Not the bad kind. The kind that came with a specific memory attached. Frank's hands, the way he'd said my name, the particular look on his face right before—
I turned my head.
He was already awake. Lying on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling with the focused expression of someone running through problems in order of priority.
Then he felt me watching and looked over.
"You're staring."
I sat up slowly. Found the sheet. Wrapped it around myself in a way that was probably pointless given the night we'd just had but felt necessary in the daylight.
The room was quiet. Outside, somewhere in the compound, I could hear the distant sounds of the morning shift changing.
Guards. Voices. The ordinary machinery of Frank Costello's world continues to tur
