NICCOLÒ

11. Cold Law

"Hi again, Pietro," Cee chirped brightly, despite having had around four hours sleep and was still working. "Fancy a quick wash?"

"If you're giving me a sponge bath, sì per favore." The man grinned, yawning slightly. Cee chuckled, dipping a towel into the warm water and gently pressing it against his face. Dirty brown water dripped from Cee's fingers, but she worked consistently - checking wounds, occasionally stitching someone up, washing away the blood and dirt.

"Why don't you go to bed, ma'am?" Riccardo suggested, carrying in a pile of blankets for the men still waiting for medical attention. Riccardo was one of the two men that had helped Gabriel across to the medical wing.

"Nonsense," Cee beamed, holding back a yawn. "I'm fine." She lifted Pietro's hand, cleaning the muck and filth from between his fingers, wiping the blood from his palms.

"You're an angel, ma'am," Pietro yawned again, resting back against the armchair.

"You can let the others get off home, now," Cee murmured to Riccardo, carrying her bowl of water on to the next man. "So long as they can walk and clean themselves off. No one that needs medical attention is leaving on my watch, bene?"

"Yes, ma'am." Riccardo passed his blankets out, sending off the ones with minor cuts and bruises.

Cee fought back another yawn, wiping the blood away from a woman's hands.

"How are you?" she asked softly, casting her eye over the woman's minor cuts and injuries. "Good enough to walk home?" The woman nodded, then shook her head.

"My husband," she whispered, her voice cracking, "in surgery. Have you heard anything?" Cee bit her lip, knowing that several men had already been pronounced dead.

"No, ma'am, but lying on the floor here won't help any more than lying on a bed at home a hundred metres away," she murmured, helping the woman sit up. "Get some rest. What's your husband's name?"

"Tommasso," the woman mumbled.

"I'll send someone to fetch you from your home if there's any news for him," Cee promised, smiling at the woman.

"Grazie, angioletto." The woman staggered away, heading out to the houses built beyond the prisoner compound.

"You are popular." Cee turned at the familiar voice. Luca leaned against the doorway, his hands in his pockets, bags under his eyes. He looked tired.

"You need a rest," Cee told him bluntly, worrying creasing her brow.

"I could say the same thing to you." Luca shrugged it off. "Besides, I'm still in charge around here, so you can't tell me what to do." He grinned, but it was forced.

"Did he...did he come back?" she asked nervously, her heart fluttering. They both knew who she was talking about.

"Took a bullet to the chest and lived," Luca laughed weakly, gesturing her to follow him to somewhere more private. Cee followed him out into the entrance, sitting with him on the lowest steps of the staircase.

Luca's eyes were trained on his shoes. "They don't know if he'll wake up, Cee." His voice was so hoarse. He was scared. For his cousin, for their future, for his future. "What if he doesn't, Cee?"

"You don't know that he won't," she argued, gripping his hand tightly.

"But I don't know if he will wake up either." Luca looked up, and she saw grief - pure, unashamed grief - on his face, ageing him. "He's stronger than me," he admitted, rubbing his chin, "a better leader than I ever could be."