“He was hit outside NV.” I fold my arms over my chest. “One shot to the shoulder. A few more shots. One, maybe two, I think. I shoved him inside the car, stripped off his jacket to stop the bleeding, and kept him awake all the way here.”
Bronx’s gaze flicks over me like he’s cataloguing damage or hunting for cracks. “Very precise. Neat. Almost like you rehearsed it, little Livvie?”
My jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”
He takes a step closer, the smell of whiskey clinging to his breath. “It’s convenient, that’s all. He’s lying on a fucking stretcher and you’re calm, saying all the right things. Feels… practiced.”
“You think I set him up?” My voice drops into something cold enough to cut marble.
Bronx lifts his hands half-heartedly. “I think you’re your father’s daughter. And no matter how good you look in a dress covered in Viacava blood, you’re still an O’Callaghan.”
My pulse kicks hard.
“You’re lucky Kingston’s still breathing,” I hiss at him. “Because if I’d let him bleed out, you’d be on your knees trying to explain how your own brother was gunned down in front of his wife.”
Bronx scrubs his face as he considers me. But before he can shoot back another insult, a wave of men in dark suits flood the corridor.
Bronx curses under his breath. “He’s here.”
I already know who’s coming.
Lorenzo Viacava appears like a judgeentering his courtroom. His shoulders are squared, hands behind his back, silver cutting through his dark hair like blade marks.
He doesn’t speak to Bronx or ask about Kingston. Instead, his eyes lock on me like I’m a problem to be solved.
“Secure the floor,” he says calmly. Then, without looking away from me, he says, “Remove her.”
The words don’t register at first. “What?”
“She’s a potential threat,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Until we verify who pulled the trigger and who gave the order, she stays off this floor.”
Two suited guards move toward me, and my body tenses. For a beat, Bronx stares at me as if he’s about to stop them. He doesn't, though, and just watches them crowd me.
“Are you serious?” I bite out. “They shot at both of us. I tried to help him.”
Lorenzo’s mouth curls slightly. “I’ll make sure to inform the paparazzi of your wifely devotion. It’ll make a wonderful story.”
He clicks his fingers, dismissing me, and turns to Bronx.
And just like that, I understand that I may be Kingston’s wife, but I’m stillnotone of them.
Two Viacava soldiers flank me without a word, each one gripping an elbow like I’m a threat instead of the reason Kingston is still breathing.
I don’t fight them. There’s no point getting into it today. But my teeth grind and my hands curl into fists at my sides, itching to see Kingston and furious the Viacavas think they can control me now.
They walk me down the corridor, past wide-eyed nurses and guards who pretend not to notice how I’m escorted like a prisoner dressed in a blood-spattered gown.
When the main doors slide open, the night air bites at my skin. The parking lot hums under the hospital’s glow, quiet except for idling engines and a siren wailing somewhere in the distance.
I’m led past a few ambulances, where a black SUV is waiting. One guy lights up a cigarette, hip resting on the hood, and the other mumbles something through the comms device in his ear.
As I slow, a man brushes past me. Fast. Hood up. Barely noticeable. He doesn’t say a word. Just bumps into me with a little too much force.
“Watch it,” one of the guards growls, but the man’s already gone, swallowed into the night.
I blink, then glance down. In my hand there’s a small folded piece of paper that he’d dropped into my palm without anyone noticing.
I glance at the guards who’re assessing the area and take the opportunity to move farther into the shadows, just enough to pretend I’m catching my breath.
