Knowing Remo meant every word, I cupped his jaw, drawing his eyes down to me, attempting a smile. “I’m fine,” I lied, trying to buy his men time.
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not fine.” The panic he was trying to hide, cut through me. “You were supposed to stay behind me. You…fuck…why did I let you come?”
“Because I insisted I see your world,” the words faltered when another wave of pain rolled through me and I shuddered.
He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching mine despite the chaos. “This is not the part you see,” he gritted, the underboss gone again, stripped down to something far more dangerous. “This is the part I bury.” His jaw flexed.
sixty-one
. . .
Remo– 36 years old
The blood wouldn’t stop. It was everywhere. On my hands, my jacket, soaking into the gravel beneath us. I pressed harder, but my palms were slick, slipping off the wound every time I tried to seal it while Ishika’s skin grew cold quickly.
“Stay with me,” I ordered, the words tearing from a throat tight with something I refused to name. “You don’t get to die. I didn’t say you could.”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were half-open, staring at nothing, before the tension left her body and she slipped into unconsciousness. The silence she left behind was louder than my heartbeat.
“He’s almost here.” Rogan stood over me, his face pale. The man he called would prevent a police inquiry.
The wait was torture. Every second was a lifetime. Every breath Ishika took was a rattle in her chest that sounded like a death knell. I wiped my hands on my pants, but the blood was under my fingernails. It was in the creases of my skin, a glaring part of me now.
Headlights swept across the yard, a black sedan screeching to a halt two seconds later. Doc jumped out, medical bag in hand. He didn’t ask questions, already aware of what happened to people who wasted my time.
“Rogan, help me move there.” He pointed to a pallet.
I hesitated as Rogan bent down to take her. My hands were locked around her. Letting go felt like signing her death warrant. But the blood was pooling faster than I could press.
“It’s okay, boss, I got her.” I lifted my hands, allowing him to pick her up and place down on her stomach.
The sight of the open wound, the torn flesh, made my stomach turn. I stood. “She’s not dying.” I didn’t remember drawing my gun, but I pressed the barrel against the side of Doc’s head. “You touch anything else, you die. You let her die, you die.”
Eyes wide, he looked at me, knew I wasn’t lying and nodded. “Pressure,” he said to Rogan,” voice steady despite my threat. “I need to pack the wound.”
I kept the gun on him. “Work fast.”
He moved swiftly. Gauze. Clamps. His hands were bloody within seconds. Although he managed to stem the blood loss, Ishika didn’t stir, adrift in the dark while I stood guard over her broken body.
Sirens wailed closer. Red lights flashed against the rusted steel of the containers before the vehicle swerved to a stop beside us the same time Rogan raced off.
“They can stabilize her better than I can,” Doc said.
The paramedics rushed out, and quickly got to work, checking her stats with Doc and loading her onto the stretcher.
I inhaled harshly, unable to stop touching her. Her hand. Her arm. Her face. She was so pale. “Stay with me, little fox.” My thumb brushed her cheek where smoke and sweat clung.
Behind me, steel rang out as my men repositioned, the dockyard still vibrating with the aftershock of gunfire and adrenaline. I didn’t turn my head when Rogan approached.
“We’re sweeping, boss. Two down. One got away between the stacks. We’ll find him.”
“You’ll drag him back breathing,” I growled, not looking away from Ishika as the medic secured a bandage and prepared to move her. “Or I’ll start tearing pieces off you until you remember how to do your job.”
He vanished into motion again.
“Boss!”
I glanced over my shoulder. One of the soldiers was running toward me, dragging someone behind him. “The shooter.” he announced, breathing hard.
