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Black water laps at the quay, the Mediterranean spread out before them like a carpet. Echoes of moonlight reflect off its surface, painting streaks of white with broad strokes onto Katya's shins where they hang off the edge of the pier. A single drop of blood hangs pendulously from her shoe heel before falling and plink -ing into the waters below, where fish move languorously. It’s quiet now, much quieter than an hour ago, when gunshots rang out on the sea.
The night has made a mess of her: the blood streaks its way up her calf, thigh, all the way up her torso to her left arm, from where it flows in starts and eddies, less than the wound on her head had before it was staunched. The pain is something she’s used to, now, and she hardly notices it. Her skirt is torn and her nylons shredded; her jacket still lies in the boat that now rests at the bottom of the harbor, along with six men.
Sofia holds her arm steady as a rock as she bandages it. One dark, wet hair slips from her ponytail and falls into her face; she brushes it back thoughtlessly and returns to her work. Her hands are wet, too: slick with blood - not her own, and only partially Katya’s - and it stains the white bandages a crimson that looks black in the night. The butt of her pistol still hangs out of its holster, and Katya’s eyes trace the edge of its wooden grip. They sit close, so close. So close, and yet so far, tonight.
She meditates momentarily on the night’s events. On Mario, now no doubt halfway to Sicily. On Ice Pick Joe, whose corpse now lies at the bottom of Naples Harbor. On Sofia, without whom she would surely share Joe’s fate. For a moment, her thoughts stray to Goncharov, but she reels them back without difficulty, like a fishing line devoid of a catch.
“It won’t hold for long,” Sofia murmurs, “but it will for long enough for you to get to a doctor.” She pulls her hands back, and goosebumps arise where she had touched Katya’s arm, now supported by a sling. Katya says nothing, only observing the work with a distant distaste. For a hitman, her field medic skills are not lacking.
Sofia rises, and extends one hand to help Katya up. The moon shines crescents off her face. Katya doesn’t take it.
“We’ll return to the hotel,” she says instead, once she’s on her feet. She stands a few inches shorter than Sofia even with her heels. “Safest there.” She glances at Sofia. Sofia only nods in return, staring at her with dark eyes. In them, she sees the pitted and scarred face of the moon. In one movement, she leans in and presses her lips to the taller woman’s. The hand of her unbroken arm cups the back of Sofia’s head, then her side, pressing them together roughly; Sofia responds in kind. Blood drips from the bandage on Katya’s forehead and lands on Sofia’s cheek.
Katya pulls away, dropping her hand, and Sofia opens her eyes, unblushing. The dot of deep red on the apple of her right cheek is the only mark on her face, and it shines brightly colored where the moonlight hits it: the only blood showing its true color in the night.
Turning, Katya begins to walk. Sofia follows in step. Far away, a dockworker keeps watch over shipping containers, but two pedestrians are nothing for him to concern himself over.
The harbor remains silent. Katya pulls the coat Andrey delivered her as tight as she can around her with her one functional arm, and the hand of the other stows Sofia’s pistol deep in an inside pocket. She knows what she must do.
And the moon retreats behind a cloud.