Carla blushes a little as she glances at her father.
“That’s the name I gave you,” she admits. “You were asleep for so long and I didn’t know what to call you. So I named you.”
“And you went with Poncho?” I balk. “Kinda ordinary, don’t you think?”
“We’d like to know your real name,” Diego says firmly.
“Cillian O’Sullivan, at your service,” I say, dipping my head forward.
A pang of pain rips through my body. I groan and settle back into the bed, against the pillows.
“But,” I add, “maybe not at this very moment.”
Carla giggles again. “I’m glad I saved you.”
“That makes two of us.”
Diego doesn’t look as happy about that as his daughter. But I have every confidence that I’ll win him over in the end. I’ve always had a way with people.
“You’ve got three bullet wounds in your chest,” he points out. “And a laceration on your arm. Probably a knife wound.”
“Sounds about right.”
“What happened?” Carlita asks, cutting to the chase.
“What happened is a very, very long story.”
“Well, if you want to recover in our home, it’s a story you’ll have to share with us,” he tells me fiercely.
“And I will,” I say, looking him in the eye.
He nods, understanding what I mean. I’m not sure the whole story is appropriate for a little girl’s ears, and I don’t want to step on the man’s toes by telling his daughter details he’s not comfortable with.
I have no doubt Carlita can take them. She’s got that sheen of maturity to her.
But still, he’s the parent.
I’m also keenly aware of how much I owe these two.
“So how long have I been out?”
“It’s been six days since mija found you in the woods.”
“Six days,” I balk. “No fucki—uh, no way?”
My mind races with a million unanswered questions again.
Artem.
Where is he?
Did Esme manage to get him help?
Is he even alive?
I try to sit up, wincing through the pain.
“Diego, I need to use a phone.”