“Gian knows not to land near this building, go guide them back here,” Dario ordered Diego.
Although I understood the need for caution, minutes later when the door behind me opened with a resounding grind, I looked over my shoulder, seething.
“About fucking–” the words died on my lips as Ishika’s face registered, more so her white cocktail dress blemished by thick smudges of dirt and her erratic breathing. My insides went cold, fury tightening my near-bursting tendons. I glared at Gian,standing beside her. He was left behind to watch over her, not bring her into this chaos. “What the fuck is she doing here?”
“Those fuckers heard the chopper, boss, so we had to hightail it out of there,” Diego intervened oblivious to my rage and breathing like the fucking devil was on his ass, confirming my thoughts that Ishika could’ve been harmed.
“The fuck,” I gritted, my scowl shifting back to Gian, his expression telling me he knew if Lorenzo wasn’t bleeding, I’d shoot him dead.
“Sorry, boss–” he began,
“Can we leave the pissing contest for later, I have a patient who needs my attention.” He was cut off by a succinct order, her voice so authoritative and clinical, it had my brows jumping to my hairline.
Not bothering to look at me or take in her surroundings, Ishika walked around Lorenzo, knelt opposite me and set what I assumed was a doctor’s bag on the floor. Opening it, she retrieved latex gloves, slipped them on then reached for a stethoscope and attached the earpieces to her ears. Silently, I watched her check his pulse, listen to his breathing then using a small flashlight, carefully open each eye and wave the light across his pupils.
“He’s been shot, twice,” I muttered.
She gestured for Dario to join her. “Keep your hands on his wounds,” she said to me then to Dario. “Can you lift him toward Remo, please, I need to check his back.” After Dario did as she asked, she leaned forward and pushed up Lorenzo’s shirt. “There’s only one exit wound,” she said, her voice muffled from her bent over position. “That means he’s still got one bullet in him.”
Done, she motioned for Dario to lower a groaning Lorenzo back down, placed a hand over one of mine and gently moved it aside, uncovering the first of the two wounds. Blood poured out.
I lost my shit, cursing like a demented man. “Would you fucking do something?” I gritted, my hand flailing above the hole, trying to cover it again.
She gripped my wrist, her eyes lifting to mine, pausing the profanities. “You need to calm down,” she urged then as if sensing my distress, she inhaled deeply. “Will you trust me?” Immediately, her soft smile engaged a level of quiet I couldn’t understand. Dumfounded, I nodded then watched her inspect the wound, prepare a thick stack of gauze which she set over the laceration, taped it down and move my hand back over it. “Keep the pressure firm,” she instructed doing the same to the other wound. Only then did concern steal over her composed expression. “If we don’t get him to a hospital soon, he’s going to bleed out.”
“Let’s get him to the chopper–”
A loud explosion drowned my words, rattling the building. The men hit the ground the same time I fell over Lorenzo, protecting his body with mine. Shattering glass waterfalled to the floor, drenching us in its deafening roar.
Breathing labored, Lorenzo groaned beneath me, his hands flailing. “What’s happening,” he croaked, his words breaking.
“I got you, Renz.” I calmed him.
When nothing but an occasional drop of glass filtered the air, I lifted off Lorenzo, assessing the damage around us. Exposed windows glared back at me, taunting our position of safety.
“We need to move out!” I hissed, keeping my voice low, unsure what threat lurked outside.
One by one, the men stood, weapons drawn and eyes alert as they inspected the place. Fortunately, the walls were still intact.
“We need a lookout,” I said to Gian.
He sprinted to one of the walls, climbed the barrels set against it and peered outside. “Cazzo!” he cursed loud enoughfor us to hear then jumped down and approached me. “They took out the chopper.”
“Oh God,” Ishika’s shocked gasp drew my gaze.
For the first time since her arrival, she appeared flustered. Still on her knees opposite me, she’d thrown herself over Lorenzo’s legs. The protective act stirred my gut, more so her quivering body.
“Fuck,” I grated, aware we’d put her life in danger. Unsure why I did it, I raised a hand, slipped a bloodied finger under her chin and lifted until her eyes met mine. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She swallowed a few times, nodded then leaned back, breaking the connection between us. I dropped my hand back to the wound.
Her expression turned professional once more. “He’s lost a lot of blood but he’s still breathing and we need to get that bullet out. How do we move him now? Any unstable friction might stress out his heart sending him into a coma or worse, he’ll…” she trailed off, her eyes round, fearful.
Her silent suggestion hit me like a gut punch. “He can’t fucking die,” I roared. She flinched. “What the fuck do we do?” I growled.
I sensed her anxiety rather than saw it and if I was a caring fucker–yeah, still calling my brain a confused fuck–I would’ve kicked myself for holding her responsible for my brother’s life. Right now, he took preference.
Her bottom lip between her teeth, she glanced around. “We need to create a makeshift station where I can remove the bullet and stop the bleeding until we can get him to a proper facility.” She stood, pointing to long pieces of wood alongside two large oil barrels. “Maybe that could–”
