He gave me the look professionals reserve for other professionals who say stupid things under pressure. “You got shot.”
“Through the shoulder.”
“That’s still getting shot.”
I slid down the wall far enough to get one knee under me instead of sitting outright. He pulled a pressure bandage from the plainclothes kit at his belt and shoved it into my right hand. “Hold that there. EMS is coming backstage.”
I took the bandage and pressed harder. White heat shot through my arm. I locked my jaw and stayed quiet.
The music continued.
Somewhere out front, they were walking Henri from his seat. In the west service corridor, Devereaux was learning what happened when Eamon Price’s local network closed around him. Somewhere onstage Dominic St. Clair was refusing to let a gunshot rule the night.
I heard running footsteps approaching me. Luca.
He came around the fly rail and dropped into a crouch in front of me without flinching at the blood. That tracked. Luca had grown up in the administrative rooms of a funeral home. Heknew the difference between a mess and an emergency. He took in the entire situation and then stared into my eyes.
He put both hands on my face. Not the wound. My face.
The gesture startled me. It was precise and grounding. My eyes close briefly on reflex. Solange Moreau had done the same thing to him the morning of the concert before we left the house, palms firm on his cheeks, as if confirming he was intact.
“I’m fine,” I said.
His hands didn’t move. “I know you’re not fine. Stop it.”
“The shoulder is—“
“I don’t care about the shoulder.”
His pupils were dark and dilated. There was no polish left in his movements, no cultivated competence or careful household authority. Fear and fury had taken hold, and he refused to let either take him apart.
“I care that you’re here,” he said.
The music was still going on behind him. The final chorus was building, and the officer at my side looked away for a moment.
Luca spoke, barely above a whisper, “Santiago.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
“I’m here,” I said.
When I opened my eyes again, Dominic had arrived.
He had given the room back the ending it deserved before he stepped away from it. Now he stood a few feet away, baton still in hand, expression pale but controlled. The officer rose just enough to clear space.
Dominic looked first at the blood, then at me, and finally at Luca’s hands still framing my face. Finally, he said, “Mr. Reyes.”
“Yes.”
“This was not the arrangement.”
Even shot through the shoulder and half on the floor against a brick wall, I nearly laughed.
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
He nodded once. “You altered it.”
“That’s my job.”
