I watch the cars leave the harbor, taking Enzo and Signora Ricci and the survivors back to whatever comes next. The bodies remain where they fell, reminders of what happens when someone makes the mistake of threatening Enzo Benedetti's territory.
The walk back to my cottage feels endless. Every shadow could be hiding threats, every sound could be more violence coming to find me. But nothing happens. The path is quiet except for my own heavy breathing and the distant sound of waves.
By the time I reach my front door, the adrenaline is wearing off but my mind is racing with one terrifying thought. How badly is he hurt?
I saw the blood spreading across his shoulder, saw him stumble when the bullet hit. What if it's worse than it looked? What if he's bleeding internally? A million terrible questions race through my mind.
I can't just sit here and wait.
I rush inside and start grabbing anything that might be useful in a medical emergency. The first aid kit from under my bathroom sink, clean towels, bottled water. I have no idea what to do with a gunshot wound, but I can't do nothing.
My hands are shaking as I throw everything into a duffel bag. This is insane. I don't know anything about medical care. I've never even taken a basic first aid class. But the image of Enzo stumbling, blood dark against his shirt, won't leave my head.
What if he's dying right now while I'm standing here panicking?
Where would they take him? Would they go to a hospital where questions would be asked that he wouldn’t want to answer?
No, they wouldn’t. Not unless he was dying.
I grab my car keys and run for the door. The drive to his villa takes forever and no time at all, my heart pounding the entire way. I keep checking my phone, hoping for another text, some sign that he's okay.
Nothing.
The villa's gates are open when I arrive, which probably means they're expecting a doctor or his men are coming and going. I park and run to the front door, not bothering to knock.
"Enzo?" I call out as I push inside. "Enzo! Where are you? Emilio! Antonio!"
The main floor is empty, but I can hear voices upstairs and a tense, urgent conversation in Italian. I follow the sounds, my bag of supplies clutched against my chest like it might actually be useful.
I find them in what must be a bedroom I've never seen before. Enzo is sitting on the edge of a large bed, his shirt off, while a middle-aged man with a medical bag examines his shoulder. There's blood on the white sheets, more blood on discarded bandages dropped onto the floor. Blood all over him.
"Enzo," I breathe, and both men look up.
The doctor, please God, let him be a doctor, says something sharp in Italian. Enzo's response is clipped, but his eyes are on me.
"I told you to stay at the cottage," he says, his voice strained.
"I know, I saw you get shot." I step closer, and the extent of the damage becomes clear. The bullet tore through the muscle of his shoulder, leaving a ragged wound that's still seeping blood despite the doctor's work. "Oh God! How bad is it?"
"It's fine," he says, which is obviously a lie.
The doctor says something else in Italian, gesturing at me with obvious irritation.
"He wants you to leave," Enzo translates. "He says civilians get in the way. He’s my private doctor who I keep on call for emergencies such as this."
"I'm not leaving." I set my bag down and pull out the towels I brought. "Here, these are clean. In case you need more bandages or something." I grab a towel and start helplesslydabbing at the blood covering Enzo’s chest. I know I’m not helping. I know I’m being ridiculous.
The doctor looks at my offering with something between amusement and exasperation, but he takes one of the towels and says something that sounds like grudging approval.
"You don't know what you're doing," Enzo says, but there's something in his voice—surprise, maybe, or gratitude.
"No, I don't," I admit, pulling out the bottled water and first aid kit. "But I couldn't just sit there by myself knowing you were hurt. I had to come. I’m sorry. And I don’t know how to help. You’ve been shot and I brought bottled water and band aids. And a bottle of fucking aspirin."
"Madison—"
"Don't." I'm crying now, though I'm not sure when that started. "Don't tell me I shouldn't have come. Don't tell me to leave. I saw what happened down there. I saw you risk your life for Signora Ricci."
His eyes go very still. "You followed me."
