Page 118 of The Bratva King

“I don’t know. He was unconscious when I left.”

I set down the tweezers and pull him against me. Just for a second. He’s been through too much, and I can see him starting to retreat into himself. He’s strong and puts on a good front, but I’ve learned when he needs to withdraw.

I release him and return to tending his injuries.

I finish cleaning one arm and wrap it in gauze before checking the other. It isn’t nearly as bad.

“What happened?” I ask quietly.

“Car bomb. Meant for me.”

His tone is so calm it takes me a second to understand what he just said.

“A bomb.”

“Yes.”

“Someone tried to kill you.”

“Yes.”

I take a deep breath, trying to process. Another car bomb. How is it possible that I know exactly what he’s experiencing? I finish his arm and carefully comb my fingers through his hair, checking his scalp for cuts or swelling.

My fingers find a tender spot near his hairline, and he winces.

“Did you get knocked unconscious?” I ask.

“No. I remember every second.”

“Ears still ringing?”

“Some.”

I don’t find any other cuts.

“How close were you?”

“Forty feet.”

“It knocked you down?”

“Yeah.”

I inspect his shoulder. It’s badly bruised, but he can move it, so I don’t think anything is broken. I push his hair back to examine the cut more closely.

Fury and fear twist tight inside me.

“Who would do this?” I ask. “Who would blow up your car?”

“The Italians.”

The gauze remains pressed to his forehead, but my hand goes still.

“What Italians?”

He looks at me. “There’s a family. You’d call them the mob. They’ve been trying to push me out of Vegas for years. They don’t like that I’m expanding into territory they think belongs to them.”

My mouth is dry. “The Italian mob.”