Page 89 of Marked By the Mob

“Let me go! I need to help Emma!”

“Bring her,” I order without looking back.

“What? No!” Krystal’s voice rises. “I didn’t do anything! I’m trying to help!”

I don’t have time to argue. Someone just shot Emma. Until I know for certain Krystal wasn’t involved, she’s coming with us whether she likes it or not.

We reach the SUV and I slide into the back seat with Emma still in my arms. Eduard takes the driver’s seat after putting Krystal in the passenger’s seat, while Artur climbs in beside me, his weapon still drawn, his dark eyes scanning the park through the tinted windows.

“Go,” I say.

Eduard doesn’t hesitate.

The vehicle lurches forward, tires squealing against pavement as we speed away from the park. I keep pressure on Emma’swound, my hand pressed against her shoulder while she hisses in pain.

“I said I’m fine,” she mutters, but her face is pale, her breathing shallow.

“You’re not fine. You were shot.”

“It’s just a graze.”

“It’s a fucking bullet wound.” My voice comes out harsher than I intend, but I can’t control it. The image of her falling off that bench keeps replaying in my mind. Each time it makes my chest tighten with something that feels dangerously close to panic.

I never fucking panic!

Artur’s hand finds Emma’s uninjured shoulder, his grip gentle but firm.

The drive back to the estate feels like it takes hours, though it’s probably less than twenty minutes. Every second stretches, my attention divided between watching for pursuit and monitoring Emma’s condition. Her breathing stays steady, her eyes alert despite the pain. She’s tough, my Emma. Tougher than most men I know.

My Emma.

The thought surfaces unbidden, and I don’t push it away. She is mine. Ours. And someone just tried to take her from us.

We pull through the estate gates and I’m out of the vehicle before it fully stops. I carry Emma inside, ignoring her continued protests that she can walk. Eduard directs us to the medical room we keep stocked for emergencies like this.

I set Emma down on the examination table. She immediately tries to sit up, so I press her back down with one hand on her uninjured shoulder.

“Stay still.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Eduard appears with the medical kit, his movements efficient as he cuts away Emma’s sweater to expose the wound. The bullet grazed her upper arm, tearing through skin and muscle but missing bone and major arteries. It’s not life-threatening, but it’s not nothing either.

“This is going to hurt,” Eduard warns before cleaning the wound.

Krystal stands in the doorway, biting her lip. Her face is paler than usual, and there’s a slight tremor rushing through her.

Emma’s jaw clenches, but she doesn’t make a sound as Eduard works. I watch her face, see the pain she’s trying to hide, and something in my chest cracks open.

I could have lost her today. One inch to the right and that bullet would have hit her chest. One inch lower, and it might have severed an artery. She could have bled out on that cafe floor while I was too far away to help.

The thought makes me sick.

Artur paces near the door, his restless energy filling the small room. “We need to find out who took that shot.”

“Already on it,” I say, pulling out my phone. I send rapid messages to my intelligence network, demanding answers. Who the fuck tried to kill Emma?