I press my finger to his lips. “Shh. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.”
That’s when I feel it.
A wet warmth spreads across my side, seeping through the fabric of my shirt. I look down and see blood, my blood, dripping steadily onto the concrete, each drop blooming dark against the pale gray.
“Fuck.”
The adrenaline had masked the pain, but now it announced itself, white-hot, tearing through my side like a branding iron. One of Tommaso’s men must have gotten a shot off before Nico put him down.
Lucky shot.
“Boss.” Nico appears at my side, his face carefully controlled. He presses a hand against my wound without waiting for permission. “Let’s get you home. Doctor Drew is already on the way.”
“Sal.” Arturo grips my shoulder, steadying me when I sway. His face is grim. “We need to move. Now.”
I let them guide me toward the SUV, but I turn back to look at Tommaso one last time. He’s kneeling in a pool of his own and his men’s blood, staring at me with something between hatred and terror.
“Don’t let him die,” I tell Nico. “Call the concierge at Presbyterian. Have him admitted through the private entrance. No police reports, no questions.”
Arturo raised an eyebrow. “You want him treated?”
“I want him stable.” I climbed into the back seat, pressing my hand against the wound, feeling the warm pulse of my own blood against my palm. “Stable enough to understand exactly what he’s lost. Stable enough to watch me take his territories. By the time I’m done, Tommaso Russo will spend every day waiting for a death I’ll never give him.”
“Unless Shadow gets wind of it,” Nico says.
Shadow’s busy; he doesn’t have time for a street thug but he’s right, you never know when Shadow might strike.
“Or better yet, let Raffaele take him out of his misery like half-dead road kill,” he adds. Now that’s a plan.
By the time we reach the estate, Dr. Drew is already waiting in my bedroom which smells like antiseptic. They must have just sanitized some space for this procedure. He unpacks his bag while Arturo helps me onto the leather sofa, which is now covered with white sheets.
Drew gets to work immediately, cutting away my bloodied shirt, assessing the damage with practiced efficiency.
“Through and through would’ve been cleaner,” Drew mutters, prepping a local anesthetic. “But you’re lucky. No major organs, clean trajectory. Bullets lodged against the rib.”
“Just get it out.”
I drape my arm over my face as he begins. I know the drill. Focus on breathing. Detach from the sensation of metal instruments probing flesh. Pretend the pain belongs to someone else.
The door bursts open.
"What happened?"
Valentina.
I don't move my arm from my face. "Get out."
"Salvatore—"
"I said get out."
I hear her sharp intake of breath. The hesitation. Then the soft shuffle of her feet turning toward the door.
"Wait."
The word comes out before I can stop it.
"Stay."
