Chapter Twenty-Four
In which Ethan explains Mafia life: long stretches of acute boredom broken up by the occasional firefight.
Ethan…
“At least she didn’t boak up on ya,” Patrick says, always looking on the bright side, that one. He’s grabbed a towel, pushing it against the wound in his side.
“How bad?” I ask, nodding at the white towel with ominous blooms of red already seeping through.
“Not too,” he grits out.
“Doc’s here!” Jack bursts into the room, pausing when he sees Sloan unconscious in the tub. “Ah, shite! Is she dead?”
“No!” I snap, putting a pillow under her head. “She fainted. Help Patrick over to the doc, aye?”
Jack wraps another towel around Patrick’s waist and ties it, ignoring his grunt of pain. “Come on then, ya big hero.”
“That shite with the oxygen tank was genius,” I say, slapping Patrick on the back.
“That was Miss Masters’ idea,” he nodded toward the tub.
He’s lookin’ dangerously pale so I push him toward the door. “Thank ya for keeping her safe. I’m in your debt.”
Sloan looks so sweet, curled up in the tub with a protective arm over her battered rib cage. She’s covered in sweat and her skin’s hot to the touch. Shite. Her fever’s back up.
Her chest is rising and falling rapidly and when I check her pulse, her poor heart is galloping its way to a myocardial infarction. Gingerly picking her up, I step through the debris, taking her out of the room. Her eyes open as I’m striding through the plaster chunks and bullet casings.
“Are they dead?” she croaks.
“Aye, they’re Satan’s problem now.” I turn to block her vision of the two bodies sprawled in the hallway and carry her into my bedroom, where she should be.
Ripping back the covers on my bed, I set her down, wincing at the blood I’ve managed to transfer from me to her, gore streaking her nightgown. “Your heart is racing, I’m getting the doctor-”
“No!” Her hoarse little voice sounds like it hurts to talk. “She’s handling real injuries, I’ll be okay.” Based on how she’s got a hand pressed to her chest, I’m doubting it.
“Hey, doc!” I shout out into the hallway. “We need ya here.”
The other men’s injuries must be less severe than I thought, because Dr. MacTavish appears almost instantly, looking at my bloody self with disapproval. “Were you hit?”
“It’s not me,” I lower my voice, “Sloan’s heart is pounding hard enough that I’m worried about a heart attack, and her fever’s shot up again.”
“Yes, both those things can happen when a sick civilian is in the middle of a firefight,” she says dryly, brushing past me to sit next to Sloan. She speaks to her in low, soothing tones while she quickly checks her vitals. “I’m giving you an anti-inflammatory in your IV,” she says, “as well as a mild sedative. Your heart rate is concerning.”
Sloan breaks out into a weak sort of giggle, tinged with a bit of hysteria. “Well, it’s been an eventful afternoon.” This sets her off again until the pain in her ribs makes her stop.
Doc smiles, patting her arm. “Yes, you jumped right into the frying pan after getting out of the fire, hmm? Ideally, you’ll have some time to heal now without another round of explosives.” Before she finishes her sentence, Sloan is asleep.
Ushering me into the master bathroom, Doc eyes me sternly. “Let’s have it, then. Where are ya hurt?”
“A bullet grazed my arm, nothing serious.” Why do I sound defensive? “And one bastard got me with his knife, just over my hip.”
“Well, that will go grand with the hole in your leg,” she says disapprovingly.
Shrugging, I admit, “Ya know how it is, Doc. Long stretches of acute boredom broken up with the occasional gunfight.”
“This was more than a gunfight,” she says, making me lean against the counter. This gives me an opportunity to look in the mirror. Ah, shite. I look like a serial killer, fresh off a hunt. No wonder Sloan’s heart was pounding like that. Admittedly, I’ve probably ended more lives than your average serial killer, but I know every one of mine deserved it.
“Injecting Lidocaine,” she murmurs, pulling out the needle and trying to clean around the wound. “I can’t tell you how unfortunate it is that you’re covered with other people’s blood when you have an open wound.”
“It happens,” I admit as she looks at the gash on my bicep. I was right, the bullet just grazed me. It likely hurts worse getting stitched up than it did when the bullet tunneled through my skin.
“Beathan? Oh, slava Bogu , thank god!” It’s my ma, looking all kinds of worried. “Jack told me you were shot!”
“It’s not bad, Ma.” She moves to hug me and I pull back. “Let me get showered first, aye? I dinna want to cover you with blood.” It hits me that Sloan is asleep in my bed and alone. “Would ya sit with Sloan? I dinna want her to wake up and not know where she is.”
Ma smiles, happy to have something to do. “I’ll still be demanding that hug when you clean up.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
Dr. MacTavish stitches me up in record time, slapping a bottle of antibiotics in my hand and sternly directing me to take the entire course. Showering while twisting to keep my stitches dry, I watch the blood wash away and down the drain. I didn’t lie to Sloan when I told her most of the gore wasn’t mine. I kick my soiled clothes into a heap to be burned later, maybe with a sprinkle of Holy Water.
“How is she?” Pushing back my wet hair, I lean over the bed. Ma’s dragged a chair over to sit next to Sloan.
“Her fever’s receding,” Ma says, putting her hand on Sloan’s forehead. “This is a strong young lady.” She looks up at me. “This has to be the most complicated assignment you’ve had since you took out those terrible men at the drug lab and you had to contend with a stoned pet tiger and several turkeys, all high as kites.” She laughs softly.
“Those turkeys poked me harder than the damn tiger,” I agree. “Aye, this is some complicated business.”
Her lips tighten. “Her stepfather is disgusting.”
My ma’s own father and his twat of a nephew planned to sell her off to an ancient Pakhan and when my father kidnapped her, they tried to have her murdered. My parents call it a “rescue” now, given how it all turned out for the best, but I like giving Da shite now and then about kidnapping his bride.
Speaking of my Da, he walks in, halting when he sees a sickly Sloan in my bed. Doc’s hooked her up to a vital signs monitor to keep track of her heart rate and blood pressure, along with a new oxygen tank.
“How’s she doing?”
“Better now,” I say, “you know Ma’s got calming powers.” She gives an unladylike snort, matched by my father’s.
“And you, son?” He grips my shoulder, squeezing gently as he looks me over. “How bad were ya hurt?”
“No more than usual,” I assure him. “Was I right about those arseholes? Oh, sorry, Ma.”
“No, they were assholes,” she says angrily.
“Aye, ya were,” Da says. “At least ya can’t blame this one on Masters. This is one hundred percent Doherty Mafia. Ya took out twelve of them on the roof, all wearing Doherty ink and we found five in the bedroom, two more dead and dangling by the window. Quite a statement.”
“Fecking Irish,” I sigh. “They hated their Captain and yet they’re still makin’ a fuss about me taking him out, the hypocrites.”
“I think setting off three explosive charges and turning your rooftop into swiss cheese is a bit more than a fuss,” Da says, trying not to laugh. “Your cousins are complaining that this is the second time ya didn’t leave anyone left for them to finish off.”
“It’s not funny, Cameron!” Ma says. “When have these men had the nerve to attack our son directly? This is war.”
Da rubs the back of his neck. We’re already gunning for the Alekseev Brothers and the Dubrinov Bratva, who’ve been trying to establish a drug trade in our territory. “I know you’re angry, love. Ya have every right to be. Let’s set down with Cormac and the others. Son, the only room left in your fancy penthouse that’s not all shot up is your great room. Everyone’s gathering there now, aye?”
Ma takes a deep breath. “I’ll stay here with Sloan. You know I’ll get everything out of your father on the drive home.” She smiles at him sweetly and he gives her a kiss. There was never a time I remember when their love for each other wasn’t palpable. It was never something I wanted for myself, but…
Things change.
Boak up - vomiting