Page 233 of Ricardo

“I can’t sit out there like this.”

“I know. Someone is bringing you clothes.”

I blink at her. “Who?”

“Mario handled it.”

Of course he did.

Victoria guides me to the sink. “Until they arrive, we clean what we can.”

She turns on the water and tests it with her fingers, then takes my hands.

The first touch of warm water makes me gasp.

The blood loosens slowly, rust-colored at first, then red as it runs down the porcelain and disappears into the drain. Victoria uses soap, is gentle but thorough, working between my fingers, under my nails, across the lines of my palms.

I stare at the water.

I see my apartment floor.

Dante on his knees.

His hand pressed to his side.

The way his face went pale so fast.

I see myself crawling toward him because I could not stand right away. My legs did not work. My ears rang so loudly I thought he was speaking underwater.

I remember saying his name.

I remember his eyes finding mine.

Focused even then.

Angry, maybe. Afraid, maybe. But alive.

“Pressure,” he said.

Or maybe I said it.

Maybe no one said it.

I only remember my hands moving.

I pressed both palms over the blood, and it came through my fingers anyway. Hot. Slick. Impossible to hold. I pressed harder. Dante groaned, and I almost pulled back because I was hurting him, but then I heard his voice in my head telling me to stay down, stay alive, do what needed doing.

So I pressed harder.

When my hands slipped, I grabbed the skirt of my dress and shoved the silk against his wound. Green silk. Ricardo’s dress. The beautiful dress I had felt shy wearing in the ballroom, the dress he wanted to take off me later.

I used it to hold my friend’s blood inside his body.

“Julia.”

Victoria’s voice cuts through the memory.

I blink.