by Mary Madison
“Chelsea. Think. We go to the hospital, they have to report gunshot wounds to the cops. And the cops... they could be on the take, remember? I'd be a sitting duck in that hospital bed, just like my... f-father was. I don't want to go out like that. So... no 9-1-1. Understand? No hospital. Promise me.”
“But...”
The hand on my wrist gripped harder until it hurt. “Promise me, Chels.”
“Well, then... then you've got to tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do!” I insisted, tears running down my cheeks. “I can't just let you die here like this. I can't!”
“Towels,” he murmured, his eyes rolling back in his head. His skin was as white as milk, and his entire body was starting to shiver. Was he going into shock? “Bunch of... towels... in the hall closet. Go. Get them.”
I didn't want to leave him like that, but I had no choice. I darted to the hallway and flung the closet door open, grabbing as many towels as I could carry. Then I ran back to him—begging God to please not let him be dead, to give us just a little more time so we could find a way out of this.
Once again, my prayer was answered. Desmond was alive... twitching, clammy, barely conscious, but still breathing.
“Okay,” I said breathlessly, “I've got the towels. Now what?”
He chuckled faintly. “What do you... think, Chels? Start shoving them down into the hole. Staunch the... flow... of blood.”
I took a towel from the top of the pile, forcing myself to look down at the open wound. When I did, I felt my insides go cold and watery. I had never seen anything so horrible and sickening in my life as the exposed guts of the man I adored, and for a terrible moment, I thought I might vomit or pass out.
But there was no time for that. I had to be strong for Desmond. I had to do whatever it took to make sure he made it through this.
We are going to have a life together, Desmond, I silently promised as I started plugging the hole with the towels. We deserve it, and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure we get it. Even if it means breaking my promise to you and getting you to a fucking emergency room, even if it means risking everything. I'm not going to let you die. I'm not going to let our dreams die. You're the only good thing that's ever happened to me in my whole lonely, fucked-up life, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let anything take you away from me.
Blood blossomed and spread across the white towels immediately—a garden of macabre roses suddenly blooming all at once. His breathing was getting more and more shallow, and his eyes had closed completely, his pupils moving sluggishly behind the lids.
I layered more towels over the wound, and more, and more... but they were all soaked through within seconds.
There was no stopping the flow. He'd already lost consciousness. Soon, he'd be completely gone.
I picked up my phone, preparing to dial the emergency number. But I hesitated, my mind racing, my finger poised over the keypad.
Over the previous week or so, I'd had enough exposure to the world Desmond lived in to understand that he wasn't being paranoid about someone coming to kill him in the hospital. The police could easily be tipped off. This was Chicago, after all... a city that was practically built on graft and corruption. It would have been terminally naïve of me to assume that he'd be safe in a place like that., Especially now that I'd had a chance to properly process everything that had happened over the last few minutes.
From what Desmond had told me, Whitey had faithfully served the Biros clan for many years. It was the reason Des had trusted him enough to protect me while he was at the warehouse with his brothers days ago, dealing with the Azzarellos. He'd never have done that if he hadn't been a hundred percent certain of Whitey's loyalty. He cared about me too much to risk it otherwise.
So why had Whitey tried to kill Desmond?
It was certainly conceivable that the Azzarellos or whoever was behind these attacks had gotten to him somehow—persuaded him to turn on his masters for more money or higher rank in their organization. Those kinds of things happened from time to time... or rather, I'd seen them happen in mob movies, and naturally assumed they happened in real life too.
I kicked myself inwardly. The truth was, I was an idiot. I had no genuine concept of how Desmond's world worked. I was just flailing around, trying desperately to come up with a plan that didn't involve watching the one great love of my life die in my arms.
Even so, I couldn't shake the feeling that Whitey hadn't switched sides. He'd mentioned “orders.” Who did he normally take his orders from?
Junior.
I'd known Joseph Biros, Jr. since we were children. I'd seen him tease Desmond, belittle him, push him around. And ever since I'd returned to Chicago, I'd seen the two of them fight and yell and insult each other. Junior had said and done some cruel and heartless things to his youngest brother—and according to Des, Junior had flat-out expelled him from the family just a few hours before. In fact, Junior had all but said he didn't give a damn whether Des lived or died.
Was it so farfetched, then, to think that Junior might have given the order to have him killed?
Or, no, wait... what if I was thinking too small?
What if Junior had been behind all of it?
At first, my mind rebelled fiercely against the idea. Junior may have been a thoroughly evil bastard, but he'd always seemed to have a lot of love for his father. Could he have had Crazy Joe murdered? Was he truly so black-hearted and vile that he would order a hit on his beloved father?
It was difficult to believe, but it wasn't exactly outside the realm of possibility either. Junior had been disappointed and furious that Joe Senior had intended to hand the keys to the whole empire over to Desmond instead of him. He was the firstborn, and he'd always assumed he'd be the natural heir. And with his father's plan to use Desmond to legitimize the Biros organization, it was no secret that he felt like he and Peter were being left behind—useless relics of a bygone era, left to fend for themselves while Desmond ascended to newer and loftier heights within the corporate structure.
I wasn't sure whether I was right. But the more I thought about the voice and bodily frame of the man in the ski mask—the one who had tried to kill me in my hotel room—the more certain I was that it could easily have been Junior. I'd been too scared for my life to put it together at that time, but now it seemed almost obvious. And why not? He'd been sure he was going to kill me, so he hadn't put as much effort into hiding his identity as he could have.
And his “interrogation” of the men who were guarding his father. He hadn't allowed Peter or anyone else to be present for that. He'd just emerged with the news that they'd implicated the Azzarellos... and that, conveniently, they'd both died immediately after.
It all seemed too weird and horrible to be true, and my mind reeled, spinning back to the sunny slopes of long ago—when Peter and Junior had played with toy guns in the yard of the estate, laughing and yelling at each other as Desmond and I lounged lackadaisically near his mother's rose bushes. I remembered Joe Senior standing on the porch, watching all of us with a proud grin. I remembered the way Junior smiled back at him, waving happily, so eager for his dad's love and approval.
Those were the memories I'd clung to so often while I was on the run with my father for all those years.
All those fun and cheerful days I'd spent with the Biros family, wishing they had been my family too, and now this... Junior had murdered his father, then tried to murder his brother and me. It was gruesome and heartbreaking beyond belief.
But I didn't have time to concern myself with that now. Desmond could be gone in minutes if I didn't think of something fast. His breath was beginning to whistle in his throat, perilously close to becoming a death rattle. I touched his hand, and his skin was as cold and white as a marble statue.
He'd die here. He'd die in a hospital. What the hell was I supposed to do?
Standing there—helpless, uncertain, watching all my dreams of love and happiness bleed out in front of me—I remembered yet another li
ne I'd always enjoyed from Paradise Lost... one that seemed chillingly apt, under the circumstances:
“Farewell happy fields.”
Where joy forever dwells; hail, horrors!”
Want More? Click Here to Continue Reading Desmond and Chelsea’s story in Why He FIGHTS (Why He Sins, Book 5): A Dark Billionaire Romance
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