At the news of Oleg being out of this safehouse, an apartment building, I couldn’t help but be more nervous. Oleg was his assistant. His right-hand man. I knew I was safe so long as Andre was with me. But he was wounded. Almost drugged and sluggish.
“I think the ammo was tipped with something,” he drawled, slurring his voice.
Oh, shit.I compressed the wound on his shoulder and searched for tweezers. The metallic sheen of the bullet was visible, and I was glad it hadn’t gone any further. I was no surgeon, but if leaving that thing in him was causing more harm, I’d get it out immediately then double down on compressing the wound.
He barely reacted other than with moans and grunts of discomfort and pain as I pried at the bullet to get it out. It seemed more like a dart than a bullet, but I was no expert.
He will be okay.
They all will be.
“Easy,” I told him gently. “Take this nice and slow,” I whispered as I tried to grasp the object in his flesh.
But he’s still out there.
He said Uncle Roberto wasn’t there.
What if…
I wincedat the fear that he could still be a threat. To me. To Andre. My baby. Any of the Orlovs.
No. Stop it.
It will be fine.
Guards are stationed here.
No one is?—
I blew out a deep breath of relief as I got the bullet. Dart. Whatever it was, it was out. I set it on the opened flap of the first-aid bag.
As soon as I pressed another rag to Andre’s wound, the door banged open.
“I need?—”
I whirled around, assuming that it was one of the Orlov guards rushing in to assist.
But it wasn’t.
A spike of icy fear shot up my spine at the face of a Giovanni guard at the door. A knife in hand. Murderous rage in his scowl.
Oh, fuck.
Fuck no.
He advanced into the apartment, glaring at me then eyeing Andre.
“No.” I stood, lowering my hand to grab a scalpel out of the first-aid kit next to Andre’s thigh. Holding it out, I embraced that same fiery energy I’d learned to welcome when I had been taken and beaten.
This need to protect.
To defend.
To stand between anyone my uncle commanded and the one I loved.
“You traitorous bitch,” he growled, stepping closer.
I closed my fingers around the scalpel. It was a small blade. A sharp edge intended to be used to help a patient. Not in defense, but it was better than nothing. Summoning every ounce ofcourage I could find, I positioned myself between Andre and the door. Between my future and a symbol of my past.
