“Are you okay?” Ronan asked again.
“I’m fine, but can you come over? And bring your doctor shit.”
“My doctor shit,” he repeated.
“Sage is hurt.”
“Sage. Your…shit. The New Year’s guy?”
“Yes,” I snapped, “the New Year’s guy.”
The guy I had a contract on who was about to make my job exceedingly simple if Ronan didn’t hurry the fuck up.
“What did you do to him?” Ronan asked.
I went back to my knees, pushing my shirt against his stomach while I glared at the counter where I left my phone. “I didn’t do shit. He showed up like this. Are you coming or not?”
“Yeah. Yeah, fine.” Ronan sighed. “What are his injuries as far as you can tell?”
“Probably a broken nose, a big cut on his cheek.” I swallowed and watched my white shirt turn red. “And a stab wound in his stomach.”
“Fucking shit, Foster.”
“The front door is locked. Use your key or come around back. We’re in the kitchen.”
“Fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Keep him awake, Foster.”
The phone beeped and the call disconnected. I turned my attention back to Sage. Or rather, Sandro Rosetti.
Who the fuck had he pissed off enough to bring down a hit the way he had? And, fuck, what did the other guy look like?
“Where were you when you were attacked?” I asked, slapping him across the face to bring him around.
His eyes opened before falling back to slits. He grimaced and fidgeted his hand around beneath mine.
“Cherry Bomb,” he grunted.
I raised a brow. “You were at a bar four blocks from my house?”
“Shithole.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t go there.” I levered my weight against him, pushing harder against his stomach. He groaned and rolled onto his back. His jacket fell open, revealing an empty shoulder holster. “Who did this?”
“Blondie.”
“Not helpful.”
“Didn’t…didn’t fucking know him,” Sage said, his eyes falling closed.
I slapped him again.
“Stop it,” he groaned.
“Keep your eyes open, then,” I told him.
“Suck my dick, Golden.” A pleased smile fell across his face, his head rolling against my floor.
“In your dreams.”
