The safe house is an older Brooklyn Brownstone. It’s been an Outfit property for decades, kept off the books, used when soldiers need to disappear or recover. Good quality with basic furnishings, stocked supplies, and no connection to any of our names.
I help Francesca in. She lets me this time, but only because she can barely walk. Inside, I guide her to the couch. She sits, still not speaking.
Doc Ricci arrives soon after. Older guy, retired surgeon who does off-the-books work for the family. He takes one look at my shoulder and whistles.
"Through and through. You're lucky."
"Just patch it up."
He gets to work. I sit on a kitchen chair, shirt off, while he cleans and stitches. Francesca watches from the couch, but her eyes are distant, unfocused.
When he reaches for the needle and thread, she stands suddenly.
"I can do it."
Her voice is stronger now, more professional. Nurse mode.
The medic looks at me. I nod.
He hands her the supplies and steps back. Francesca moves close, her hands steady as she starts stitching. This is familiar territory for her—medicine, procedures, and things she can control.
"I saved you once before," she says quietly, focused on the wound. "With a gunshot wound in your shoulder."
"Different shoulder this time."
"You’re bleeding for me." She ties off a stitch. "You got shot protecting me."
"I'd take a hundred bullets if it meant you were safe."
Her hands pause for just a moment, then continue. When she's done, the medic provides bandages and she wraps my shoulder with practiced efficiency.
"Keep it clean, change the dressing daily," she says, her voice clinical. Then she looks at the medic. "He'll need antibiotics. That wound was dirty."
"I've got them in the car."
"Good." She steps back, looks at me with eyes I can't read. "I need to wash my hands."
She disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. Then more water. Then more.
The medic packs up his kit. "She okay?"
"No."
"Sal told me what happened. Give her time. Shock doesn't wear off fast." He heads for the door. "I'll be back tomorrow to check the wound. And kid? That woman just watched you kill a warehouse full of people and strangle a man with your bare hands. If she's still here in the morning, you better know what that means."
After he leaves, I stand outside the bathroom door. The water is still running.
"Francesca."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I said I'm fine." Her voice cracks on the last word.
I try the handle. Locked.
"Open the door."
