He leans down, gripping my arm and yanking me to him. My shoulder screams, the healing wound tearing.
Breathe.
Breathe through the pain, Izzy.
Gritting my teeth, I kick out, catching him off guard enough for me to throw my weight forward and run.
The elevator door dings.
Enzo’s smile dies the second he walks in, seeing the carnage.
“Get down,” he shouts.
I don’t think. Just do as he says.
Two shots are fired.
Then Enzo’s scooping me into his arms, running his hands over me as if making sure I’m okay.
The safety I feel in his arms has my eyelids drooping, fatigue pressing down on my skull. My head throbs.
“It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
I pass out.
31
We’re Not Going Home
I got into a fight today because Maria said that you were sending her letters too. I know that’s not true. —Iz
Enzo
“You!”Ibellow,rushingto the nurse who’d tended to Izzy before.
Her eyes widen, taking in Izzy’s limp form in my arms.
“What happened?” she asks, eyes assessing as she runs over with a bed.
“She ripped her stitches,” I tell her, placing Izzy down.
Doctors and nurses start fussing over her justas she stirs, blinking her eyes opening groggily.
Her gaze finds mine. She smiles. “Ouch.”
Relief floods me. “Fuck.”
The nurse scowls at me as she checks Izzy’s shoulder. “We’ll need to re-apply the stitches, how did this happen?”
Izzy’s face turns guilty. “Uh, I tripped?”
Great. Use the excuse battered women do and make it sound like I’m a fucking woman beater.
“We had a break in,” I explain, rolling my eyes at Izzy.
The nurse narrows her eyes, looking between us before huffing and gathering supplies needed to fix Izzy back up.
We’re discharged an hour later.
