Chapter Forty-One
Adriana
The knife wound to my torso isn’t deep, it’s clean, and looks like it’ll heal with minimal scarring, but that’s about the only good that can be said for it; a knife wound is still a knife wound, and they hurt like a bitch.
And this one, every twitch, every breath — and god help me if I fucking sneeze — reminds me that a Russian knifed me in the bathroom of a dirty karaoke bar in Sacramento; I could have happily gone my entire life without having those words in my autobiography.
I just hope the damn blade wasn’t dirty.
If I get infected from that knife, I will track that Russian down at the morgue and make sure he suffers in the afterlife.
I won’t need to do any voodoo or witchcraft to do it, either — I’ll just record Mayhem and Mrs. Eng singing karaoke and play it on a loop next to his rotting corpse.
I lean over in my seat, an act which hurts like hell, and bring my lips to Reaper’s ear. “Can you make him stop?”
He frowns, then clears his throat before whispering in my ear. "Trust me, if I could make Mayhem stop singing, I would've done it years ago. But interrupting him mid-song is like poking a bear. A drunk bear who has more explosives on him than you would believe."
“You think he’s got explosives on him now?”
Mayhem pauses mid-note, turns, and looks me right in the eye. “Oh, I definitely have explosives on me.” His eyes go back to the road, and he sings that old Johnny Cash lyric from ‘Folsom Prison Blues,’ “And I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.”
Which is disturbing enough as it is, and it’s even more disturbing because he’s signing it along to Britney Spears’ ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time.’
Before I can reach for the door handle and self-eject from this limo ride to hell, Mayhem swings the wheel abruptly and then slams on the brakes. Tires squeal and the wheel rims throw up a shower of sparks while Mrs. Eng claps and cheers like we’ve just stepped off a roller coaster at Disneyland.
“We’re back,” Mayhem says.
“Thank fuck,” Tank says. “I could not last another fucking second.”
Diesel murmurs something inaudible, but which has the distinct tone of a prayer meant for Satan’s ears.
Reaper hops out next, then holds out his hand to help me out.
I take it, wincing still at the effort of moving.
The moment my feet hit the pavement, guards emerge from the front door of the Triad den and surround us.
In their midst is Charlie Eng and Madam Lin’s grandson, Danny, the doctor, who is holding a leather doctor’s satchel at his side.
Eng and the doctor both stride toward us.
“I heard what happened. Thank you for keeping my mother safe. Whatever weapons and assistance you need, you shall have it,” he says solemnly.
“Oh, Charlie, I had such a wonderful night,” Mrs. Eng says, pulling her son into a hug.
“It is such a shame you could not be there. But your friends kept me very good company. They kept me safe, and they sang with me, too. Next time: no excuses, you are taking me out and you are singing, too. No more excuses. You will honor your mother with your singing voice.”
Tank clears his throat and has an intense, businesslike look on his face, but I cut him off, because I am not in any mood for male posturing in this moment.
I point kindly, forcefully, and with clear intent to maim if I don’t get my way, at Danny.
Then I point to my bleeding midsection. “I was stabbed in a dirty bathroom. Let’s fix this. Now.”
He blinks, then, once Charlie Eng nods, he nods, too. “Let’s go. I’ll take you to your room upstairs. We will work on you there, and I will have you fixed up in no time.”
We determinedly weave through the crowd, and Danny does his best to keep his eyes low and averted from the deviant debauchery that’s taking place in the shadows. I almost feel sorry for him, trapped by his family obligations.
He pauses and throws a quick glance over his shoulder, as if he can read my mind. “This work pays very well. I do not enjoy it. But I enjoy the things I can provide for my family because of it.”
“That’s great. And I’d love to hear more about your complicated moral code. But after we disinfect and stitch up this gaping wound in my stomach, OK?”
“I would hardly call it gaping.”
“Say that one more time and I’ll show you gaping.”
He blinks, and for a second I think I’m going to learn a valuable lesson about not pissing off the doctor before he’s fixed you up, then he nods. “Very well.”
Up in the lushly appointed room that the Triads have set aside for us, Danny directs me to sit on the bed and remove my shirt. I do so in one quick motion — wincing as I do — and take a long moment to look down at the wicked red mark running across my stomach. It looks angry.
Danny eyes it for a moment, then places his hands around the wound, barely touching the edges. “I will give you some antibiotics to stave off any infection. I will stitch you up and bandage the wound. And I suggest you avoid fighting with knives for a while.”
“That all sounds logical, except it means I’ll have to figure something else out to do for my Friday nights.”
“Today isn’t Friday.”
I sigh, then keep my mouth shut. Danny sets to work, doing exactly as he said he would, and I stay silent until the needle enters my skin and the thread pulls tight to close the gap in my flesh. I hiss like a teakettle at full boil.
Danny then stands up, gathers his supplies into his satchel, and nods with satisfaction. “Get some rest. Do not get stabbed again.”
As I stretch out onto the bed, the sheer exhaustion of this night from hell overtakes me, and my eyes slam shut on their own. With a deep sigh, I drift off, and hope that the nightmare of the last few days, and all my doubts about Reaper and my sister’s death, don’t follow me.