“Capo!” Matteo shouts, pointing to the left.
She staggers from an alley, her hand braced against the brick, and her body trembling. Her face twists when she sees me, like she’s seconds from falling apart. And before I can even breathe, I’m moving toward her, blind to everything else.
I don’t hear the second set of footsteps until Matteo screams.
“Capo! Down!”
The gunshot rings in my ears, and for half a second, I think I’ve been shot. But then Bella jerks forward with a gut-wrenching scream. My hands catch her just before she hits the pavement, blood coating my palm.
Shit. The bastard redirected his aim at her last minute.
“Fuck—no, no—” The words rip out of me as my hand presses down on the wound.
I whip my head around, ready to tear the bastard apart, but Matteo’s already dropped him with a shot to the skull. More men spill out from their hiding spots. Some burst out from behind a rusted dumpster by a curb, while others from a closed street store, guns already raised.
My body shields hers as I pull her back into the alley. She groans in pain, collapsing against the wall. “I-I can’t—” she manages to force out between shallow breaths.
Crouching down beside her, I take off my shirt, fold it tight, press the fabric into the wound…and guide her trembling hand over it. “Don’t let go.”
I squeeze her hand once, then push back on my feet. Panic claws against my chest, driving me back into the open. Every pull of my trigger is wild with desperation… fueled by the thought of her bleeding against the wall. There’s no time for anything else, except to get her out of here as soon as possible.
The last bastard goes down with a shot to his head. My feet move rapidly back toward the alley. Scooping her in my arms, I realize how hot her body feels. A strangled cry escapes from her lips as she wraps one arm around my neck and presses her face into my shoulders, while her other hand grips the makeshift bandage.
Guilt creeps up my neck, choking me. She’s hurt because of me. She was fucking shot because of me. “Matteo, call the doctor. Now! I want the footage from every camera in twenty blocks forwarded to my tablet. Find out who fucking did this.”
There’s no time for me to be anything but furiousandfunctional. Matteo holds the car door, and I lower her as gently as I can manage into the back seat, then move to the driver’s seat. My grip on the wheel is so tight my knuckles ache, but I don’t loosen it. Not until she’s home. Not until she’s safe.
***
“Stay with me, Isabella.” Her eyes flutter open and shut. “Where’s the fucking doctor?” The words are forced through my clenched teeth as I carry her to my bedroom.
“He’s out of the state right now. He’s sending someone else, but it might take a while,” Matteo replies.
“You find someone else,” I growl.
The blood on the cloth used to wrap her wound warns me we don’t have much time. I move her to the bathroom, placing her on the large counter space.
“A-am I going to die?” Her grunts of pain grow heavier with each word she lets out. And I know she’s about to feel like her insides are ripping apart since she’s never been shot. Fuck!
With an increased sense of urgency, I roughly grab all the necessary items and set them down on the cabinet beside her, then, without hesitation, move to wash my hands. When I return to her, an odd feeling constricts my throat. Fear.
I’ve stitched up men before. Pulled bullets out of my own body, but she’s not a soldier. She’s not a man who’s spent his life being torn open. She doesn’t belong bleeding in my bathroom.
Still, I move, parting her thighs to stand in between them. The ketamine ampoule snaps in my fingers, pieces of glass pricking my skin. It’s a heavy dissociative, strong enough to pull hermind away from the pain, but I know it'll leave her hazy and disconnected.
“You’re insane,” she gasps, eyes widening. “You can’t…you’re not a doc—”
“Not now, Bella. I’d rather take my chances than watch you die.”
Her hand stays pressed against the wound as I draw the sedative into the syringe.
I keep my fingers firm against her arm to keep her from moving, then sink the needle deep into the muscle of her upper arm.
She flinches, body stiffening. “Ooh—shit,” she gasps. “I… I’m sorry. I hate needles.”
“This will make you feel better,” is all I say as my eyes fall to her torso. I wait a few seconds, watching her pupils dilate as the drug hits her system and dulls her edge. “Let me see it.”
She hesitates, teeth clenched, before easing her hand away. Every movement makes her grunt in pain. Without wasting time, I peel the blood-soaked cloth back gently and see the wound clearly for the first time. It’s in the upper curve of her right shoulder, just below her collarbone, away from anything vital, but there’s no exit wound—the bullet is still lodged in.
