BRODY: Text me when you get home. After last week when he delayed your ride, I’ve been worried.
ME: I reported it to Sera but she said nothing could be done since he never laid his hands on me.
BRODY: She should know better. Powerful men tend to limit all your connections and options so that you have no other options.
ME: Not making me feel better, Brod.
BRODY: Keep your guard up. Get out of there tonight as soon as you can. I don’t trust him.
He’s been protective of me since that day in our boss’s office, and our plan to communicate every day does make me feel better. Just having someone care about my whereabouts feels safer and less lonely. I confide in him everything that happens since I don’t feel very supported by my supervisor or the board.
I’m just grabbing my bag from one of the spare bedrooms I’ve been assigned when I hear a loud bang from downstairs. The silence is instantly shattered with yelling, footsteps running, and orders being directed. I freeze on the spot, my breathing becoming labored and erratic. Are we under attack? Did something happen? Should I stay and hide or try and run? My gaze roams the room and latches onto the window. I move over to it, jiggling the lock and trying to open it. It’s been years since I climbed out of a window, but if my life is on the line, I’m hoping it will be like riding a bike. I just get the window up a few inches when there’s a sharp slap on my door.
“Winnie. Come downstairs,” Nico hollers and hits the door again.
My racing heart calms slightly. If Nico is up here, then that means we aren’t being attacked. “Coming!” I manage to yellback. My voice sounds shaky, and I quickly run my palms over my scrubs.
“It’s okay,” I mutter to myself before opening the door. Sure enough, Nico is waiting. His face is stoic, but his eyes are a little crazed. There’s also blood on his crisp white shirt.
“You’re needed in the den.”
“I’m not allowed in the den,” I remind him, chasing after his long strides down the hall and to the main staircase.
“Tonight you are,” he grunts, never once looking back at me. I have to run to keep up with him. At the main entrance, my gaze instantly falls to the blood pooled on the white marble floors. One of the maids is bent over, trying to clean it all up with paper towels and bleach.
“What happened?” I breathe out. “Was it Marco?”
Nico glances back at me, and for the first time, I see a hint of a smile on his lips. “The boss will be pleased with your concern. But no, it’s not him. One of his cousins was attacked outside one of the clubs. Stab wound.”
Surely he knows that there is too much blood on the floor for it to be a simple stab wound. My brow furrows, and shivers race down my spine. Nico leads me down a foreign wing of the house, right to the den. I can hear the chattering of male voices the closer we get. Some concerned, some low, all of them laced with urgency and a sense of dread. I also hear screaming. A man’s scream, then a moan, and it makes my gut clench painfully.
I follow Nico into the room, aware of every gaze that follows me as I enter. Blood spatters the cream-colored carpets, and there in the middle of the room, lying on the top of a granite coffee table, is a kid who can’t be more than eighteen. His shirt is torn open, his skin deathly pale and shiny with sweat.
Marco’s head snaps up, and he lifts his hand in my direction, motioning me forward. “Come.”
The more I see, the more I realize this is a medical emergency. This isn’t something I can do on my own, not to mention that ethically, I shouldn’t be doing it. This kid needs surgery, not a suture. His side is gaping open from a supposed stab wound. I can see the bulge of one of his intestines. Who knows what’s been hit, including if it was a major organ. I shake my head. “He needs a hospital.”
“We don’t have time to get him to a hospital,” Marco snaps, his hand curling around my elbow to the point it causes pain as he hauls me forward. I’m brought down to my knees in front of the kid. “Save him.”
The kid takes one look at me and thankfully starts to pass out. His chest heaves through the pain the entire time I look him over, while blood continues to trickle out of the wound. “I will do what I can, but he needs an X-ray. He may even need surgery.”
Marco glares at me. His usual non-effected gaze is gone, and in its place is a cold and deadly one. He motions for someone to step forward, and I’m handed a navy bag that looks like one that EMTs carry. “He can’t go to the hospital. You will save him.”
“It’s not that simple, Marco,” I grit out, my eyes narrowing on my employer. The room quiets, and Marco’s jaw clenches, his eyes turning stormy at my use of his name. I don’t care, though. I want this kid to live, too. I don’t want him to die. But I’m not a doctor, and he needs more than just to be stitched up.
He steps back, shaking his head. An evil, angry chuckle leaves his lips. Those gold eyes pin me in place before he reaches behind his back. In one breath, I think my life will end right here. Tonight. Because when he brings his hand back, there’s now a gun in it, aimed right at my head. “You will fix him. Or you will join him in death.”
Everything in the room slows. Sound disappears. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I refuse to beg this monster for anything. I hatehim. I hate him for putting me in this position. Not only will I be breaking a moral code, but the second I perform any type of surgery that is out of the realm of necessity to my job title and performed outside of the hospital, I could lose my job and my license. Is that more important than my life though?
“Find out his blood type, and who matches. He’s going to need blood,” I reply, keeping my gaze trained on Marco and not the weapon in my face. Someone leaves the room.
My hands rip open the EMT bag, and I instantly find an IV and a drip bag. After putting on a set of gloves, I fill the drip bag with a fluid solution and insert the IV into his arm. His arm doesn’t flinch, but his eyes flutter slightly. While that works, I inspect the stab wound, which actually looks more like he was sliced in half rather than stabbed.
“What was he stabbed with?”
“You don’t need to know that to fix it,” Marco growls, and I flinch.
Feeling frustrated, I start packing the wound with gauze, hoping to staunch the bleeding, so I can see what else is going on. “Do you have any pain meds?”
