by Skyla Madi
“Yes.” I press the recline button on the console and lie Cammie back. “But dentists use sutures, right?”
“Yes.”
“And saline? And peroxide?”
“Well, yes, but—”
I look at him and his stare flicks to the knife tucked into the waistband of my pants. It’s the only weapon I’ve got besides the rifle in my trunk. Cammie destroyed my handgun when she dived into the pool which, like an amateur, I left behind. Luckily, it’s not registered to me or Moretti.
“Then I’m in the right place.”
“Is this what Beau wanted me to stay open for? No. Absolutely not.” He points to the door and I see the sweat patches in the pits of his pale blue shirt. “If you don’t leave right now, I will call the police.”
I narrow my eyes and he swallows hard, his tiny Adam’s apple bobbing gently. “Go ahead.”
I dare you.
“Don’t mind him. He’s a dentist.”
Nathan startles and I whirl on my heel, knife drawn. Lifting a gloved hand, Beau stops in his tracks, my knife three quarters of an inch away from his throat. So. Fucking. Close. I can’t remember the last time someone snuck up on me.
Tonight, I’m too sloppy. First I let Cammie distract me and now Beau? If I don’t get a handle on my shit this could end badly.
Beau purses his thin, pink lips and lowers his hand. Exhaling as subtly as I can, I lower my arm and slip my knife back into my waistband.
Nathan scowls at Beau. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone knows dentists are assholes by default.”
“Bullshit.”
“Oh, yeah?” Beau moves to Cammie’s side, pushing the assistant’s suction station out of the way, and drops his black duffle bag on the floor. “How many assistants have you gone through this month, Nathan?”
Nathan cuts his dark brown eyes at Beau. “I don’t tell you how to run your business, so don’t tell me how to run mine.”
Aside from the incessant bickering, you wouldn’t be able to tell that Beau and Nathan were brothers. Nathan is a short, slim brunet and Beau is a blond with a wide frame.
I hate them both equally.
“Get her clothes off. I’ll need to examine each laceration. How many did you say there were?”
“A handful,” I tell him. I grip the collar of Cammie’s romper and tear it down the middle before slipping her arms and legs out of it, exposing her black, lacy underwear. “The cut I’m most concerned about is the one on her inner thigh.”
Beau grips her leg behind the knee and inches it up. Blood continues to leak out, but not at the rate it once did. “By the looks of it, she’ll need a blood transfusion. Do you know her blood type?”
Releasing her, he crouches to dig through his bag. He places different types of blood on the bench nearest to him, a cannula too. I know everything about Cammie. I know what primary school she went to, her list of allergies, and the last time she had a fucking pap smear. Knowing a target inside and out is a part of my job.
“AB Negative.”
He stops digging and drops his head back. “Of course she fucking is.”
“AB Negative is—”
“The rarest blood type. We know, Nathan, Jesus!” Beau stands up, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Why are you still here? Don’t you have teeth to clean?”
“It’s ten o’clock. No one needs a check-up and clean this late.”
Rolling his eyes, Beau looks at me, defeated. “I don’t have AB negative, Stefan.”
I shrug. “So use O negative.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t. The hospital’s O negative supply is critically low until the new shipment arrives tomorrow morning. I couldn’t sneak one, and believe me, I tried.”
I slide my teeth together. Damn it. The girl is on death’s door and she’s still a pain in my ass. I clench my jaw on and off, on and off, willing myself to let this one go. She’ll die. Moretti will be happy, I’ll get the other half of my money, and then I can get on a plane and leave this Godforsaken hell hole.
But…
Why do that when I can make my life ten times harder than it has to be?
“I’ll give her blood.” I swipe my hand over my face. “I’m O negative.”
“I didn’t plan for a direct blood transfusion.” Beau presses the tips of his fingers to his temples. “I’ve brought enough transfusion needles and rubber tubes…I just…I just don’t know if a direct transfusion is a good idea.”
I grab a weird fucking seat and slip onto it. Pulling the arm rest to the front, I rest my elbows on it and straighten my left arm. “Do it.”
He rubs at his temples, small circles that seem to appease his nerves. “We’d need a glass tube for the blood to go into. If your blood is withdrawn into a vessel, then clotting will be prevented, but we don’t have enough time.” He throws his hands up. “Screw it. I’ll do what I can.”
Turning on his heel, he grabs a handful of transfusion needles, rubber tubes, all kinds of bits and pieces out of his bag. “I’m going to do a rough job of it, but it should just be enough.”
He rips opens an antibacterial wipe packet and swipes it over the vein in my arm. “How long has she been bleeding?”
I shrug. “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”
He nods and turns to Cammie. He pokes and prods her before turning back to the bench to grab his sharp instruments. He comes at me. “After a brief examination of her lacerations, I’d say that, given the duration of her bleeding, she’s narrowly missed her femoral artery. The heavy bleeding in the beginning was enough to render her unconscious which, luckily, decreased the flow of blood due to a drop in blood pressure.” He shoves the needle into a vein with careless haste and I clench. “By this point, however, I’d say she’s at a high risk of exsanguination—”
“English,” I snap.
“Bleeding out. She’s at high risk of bleeding out, so we need to get your blood into her as soon as possible.”
He tapes everything in place before turning to Cammie. My blood runs down the tube and drips onto the floor, making Nathan curse somewhere behind me. Beau sets up her cannula before attaching the rubber tube and taping it down.
Exhaling, Beau turns to Nathan. “I need you to get some saline so I can irrigate her wounds. I’d also like peroxide, if you have it, and those vicryl sutures you use.”
With a nod, Nathan disappears down the hall and Beau goes back to assessing Cammie. “It’s a good thing she shot that window before jumping through it. Most of her cuts are benign, only one or two will require stitches, but this one on the inside of her thigh is really doing her in.” He glances at me. “You should’ve taken her to a hospital, Valentino. She needs an x-ray. I don’t feel comfortable stitching these wounds until we know for sure that nothing was left behind.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
He frowns. “I can’t guarantee that I’m going to get all the debris out when I flush the wound.”
“So flush extra well. Taking her to see a radiologist isn’t going to happen.”
Nathan enters the room, carrying all of the items Beau asked for, and Beau gets to work. I watch him, careful not to fall out of my chair as my head spins. He flushes, cleans, sutures, and dresses the wounds with whatever the dental clinic can provide―which is a lot, surprisingly.
After God knows how long, Beau and Nathan wipe as much blood off of Cammie’s skin as they can before, finally, pushing her hair out of her face. Relief floods me when I see a slight shade of pink paint her cheeks, but relief is the complete opposite of what Beau and Nathan are feeling, apparently.
They look at me, incredulously. As if the woman on the chair is a three-breasted alien.
“That’s…” Nathan backs up, pulling his gloves off and tossing them to the floor. “You brought Cammie Connors here? Are you fucking insane?”
Oh, so they know who she is then. I rip the stuff out of my arm and press a cotton roll to the hole to stop the bleeding. “Apparently.�
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Beau gapes at me, betrayal glistening in his eyes. Don’t tell me these idiots are terrified of Christiano too?
“You know who she is, right?” Nathan asks and I nod.
“Of course I know who she is.” Everyone knows who she is.
“Do you have a death wish?”
I scowl at him. “Do you?”
I slip off my chair and turn to Beau, ignoring the way my brain comes loose in my skull and rolls around. “Now that she’s semi-stable, you’re going to give her back to me, and keep your mouth shut about this whole ordeal, understand?”
“But—”
“No buts.” I lean in and lower my voice. “I will burn this fucking place to the ground with the both of you in it.”
I turn and stroll from the room in search of a cupboard that has anything to cover Cammie’s semi-naked body. Thankfully, after opening six cupboards and one drawer, I find one filled with various sized scrubs, all in an ugly cashew hue, looking more like prison uniforms than medical attire.
I ignore Beau and Nathan, who argue in hushed whispers as I re-enter the room, and I dress Cammie while they watch. Their unease wafts off of them in waves, and I can only pray that they are more terrified of me than they are of Christiano.
“Do you have anything that will keep her unconscious?” I ask Beau, and he thinks about the question.
“Keep her unconscious?”
“I want her to be sedated. It’s only for a few days. I have a couple of things I need to sort out and I’d rather not have her running around causing problems for me.”
“You want me to induce her into a coma?” He steps forward, his movements too aggressive for my liking. “Unless you have an intensive care set up that I don’t know about, I’m not giving—”
I pull my knife on him and he swallows his protest. “Need I remind you that I killed the pool boy your wife was fucking?”
Nathan gasps.
“You owe me.”
Beau squares his shoulders. “When do I stop owing you?”
“When I say so.”
My phone rings in the pocket of my slacks and I slip my knife back into my waistband to pull it out. Moretti.
Shit.
I glance at Beau, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “You’re coming with me. We’re going to make a stop at the hospital so you can grab some things—”
“I have to get home to my wife and children. They’ll be wondering where I am.”
I grab Cammie and gently pull her into my arms. “They’ll be wondering where you are for the rest of their lives if you don’t do exactly as I say.”
Cursing, Beau seizes his duffle bag as Nathan steps forward. “What about the mess?”
I head for the door. “Clean it up.”
Beau tells Nathan he’ll call him tomorrow and follows me out into the waiting room.
“I need you to set up a room in my home. It doesn’t have to be state of the art, but it has to be enough to sustain her for a few days.”
He grumbles, but doesn’t protest. Why would he? He fucking owes me, considering he screwed me over with the payment for drowning the cabana boy.
I lay her on the backseat of my car and grab the black sack from the trunk. I’ll need to put it on Beau’s head once we pass through the city and head toward my house. I can’t have him knowing the location. Not even Moretti knows the location.
Speaking of which, my phone vibrates again as I slide behind the steering wheel. I ignore it and turn the key in the ignition.
He’s going to be furious.
Chapter Nine
∞ Cammie Connors ∞
I’m not dead, I know that much, but God, I wish I was.
I open my eyes and blink away the sleep that covers my vision, muting the sharp lines of the world into fuzzy shapes. I cough, then hiss, squeezing my eyes shut, and clenching every muscle in my body. Ow.
I jumped out of a window into water…so why do I feel like I’ve been hit by a semi-trailer? I force myself to roll onto my side with a tight groan. My muscles ache, my skin burns. Seriously. What the hell happened? I swipe at my eyes, desperate to clear away some of the fogginess. It comes to me slowly. A sparse, white room with the perfect amount of sunlight leaking through the heavy, drawn curtains. I glance at the walls. I can’t be in the Russo manor. There’s a gold crucifix on the wall in every room there, no exceptions. My aching stomach sinks like a stone. If I’m not there…and I’m not at my home…I must be at the Morettis’.
But that doesn’t make sense.
The Morettis paid Stefan Valentino to kill me, so why would they go to so much trouble to keep me alive instead of leaving me to bleed out on that poor family’s balcony? Unless…unless I’m in Stefan’s home?
I grab the dense blanket and throw it off me. Why would he keep me alive? Glancing down, my pale purple hospital gown is hiked up and I see the damage. Like a mummy, I’m bandaged all over. All kinds of dried medicaments cover the minor bruises and cuts, none of which I can name besides the obvious brownish antiseptic cream. Slowly, I push myself into a sitting position and pull my legs over the edge of the bed.
Holding my breath, I force myself out of bed and manage to hold myself upright. My limbs don’t feel like they belong to me. I put one foot out, and then the other, until I reach the wall beside a short table littered in all kinds of things. It’s as if they’re new and I’m still learning how to use them. Resting against the wall, I sift through the packets and bottles, trying to decipher what he’s given me, exactly. One item in particular catches my attention and I lift up the familiar thin, rubber tube, lightly streaked with blood.
“Nasogastr…” I pause and drop the tube, horrified.
Did he perform a nasogastric intubation on me? Who does that? Wait. If he did that…how long have I been out for? Christiano would be worried sick—the hospital too.
A small, clear bottle, filled with an unmistakable milky white substance catches my eye next. I don’t have to read the label to know what it is. Given the nasogastric tube, the monitors, and everything else, I know for sure that that is a little bottle of Propofol, a common sedative used for surgery. I glance around the table, looking for any other drugs he’s administered without my permission. I can’t see anything else, which worries me. Depending on how long I’ve been under, I’d say he would have had to put a catheter in and—oh, God—I don’t even want to think about it.
I press my hand to the wall and ease myself over to the door. The low grumble of a familiar voice vibrates through the air and stops me in my tracks.
“She doesn’t know anything about it,” Stefan bites out from somewhere in the house and I lean against the doorframe and listen. “Either of them.”
I inhale long and hard through my nose, suddenly out of breath. I feel every bit of my injuries now. Everything hurts—every damn thing—but the last thing I want is to lie back down. I don’t want to spend another second here.
“When have I ever been wrong, Frank? Just give me a little more time. If I can’t prove it, if I can’t convince you, then…then I’ll do it. I’ll fill the kill order.”
I shudder and peer around the frame. There’s a door at the end of the long, empty hall, and it’s cracked open a sliver, allowing his voice to carry through the house. He keeps talking but I don’t pay attention. Instead, I move forward, forcing myself out into the open living area. It’s bare and wide, giving me plenty of space to move, but little to hold on to. I make my way over to a glass sliding door and grip the hem of the thick, white curtain. Where am I? Holding my breath, I pull the drape open an inch and flinch away from the sun that spills in and blinds me.
“You’re awake.”
Jolting, I whirl around and lose my balance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Stefan inch forward, but I catch myself on his large, white drapes. Clenching my teeth, I grip the fabric in my hands and force myself upright. When I’m stable, I let go of the curtains and smooth my palms down the length of my hospital gown, lightly skimming the
surface when I get to the places that hurt. Then, and only then, can I bring myself to look at him.
Stefan stands tall and broad shouldered with his tight, black button-up shirt rolled at the elbows and a black jacket hanging over his arm. His black slacks and shoes match and, in his hand, he cradles a small cluster of green grapes that drip clean drops of water onto the pristine white tiles at his feet.
It’s incredible, seeing him in broad daylight instead of the shadows of night. He’s better looking than I remember—and that angry stare, gosh. Why do I find it so…invigorating?
I rub my fingers against my palms. What am I to do?
“Your gown,” he states, slipping a grape into his mouth. He tucks it into his cheek. “It’s not tied up at the back.”
He bites down on the grape as I snap my hands to my backside and pinch my gown together, ignoring the searing hot lava that seems to seep into my cheeks. “Take me home. Now.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not an option.”
“Not an option?” I inch forward, wincing. “Why isn’t it an option?”
His dark hair is dishevelled, like he’s run stressed fingers through it one too many times today. “Because Moretti says so.”
“Screw Moretti. Christiano—”
“Hasn’t made a peep.”
I pull back with a swallow. Oh. He pops one grape after the other into his mouth, enjoying the silence as he eats them.
“The Russos haven’t said anything about your disappearance.” He swallows the grape and slides his empty palms against his slacks. “No backlash. No threat of war. Hell, Christiano was spotted having dinner at a pizzeria with Tony last night.”
I don’t get it. What is he trying to prove by telling me that?
Stefan steps forward, and the very movement of his powerful legs seems predatory. I try hard to swallow the bitter pill of irrelevance at the mention of Christiano being unfazed by my disappearance. Maybe Stefan is lying. Maybe he’s trying to get me to betray the Russos by manipulating me into thinking they don’t care. Trust me, they care. I’ve been a part of their family for ten years. I’m one of them whether I like it or not. Regardless, I’m not about to discuss Christiano with Stefan. He wouldn’t understand.