Chapter 19
LIVVIE
A loud bang carries in the air. I’d recognize the sound of gunfire anywhere.
Beside me, Kingston jerks, his body shielding mine on instinct even as he staggers.
His other arm lashes out, curling around my waist to manhandle me behind him.
“Get down,” he growls through clenched teeth, his voice gravel and steel.
I drop low, pivot fast, adrenaline flooding my system. On my hunkers, I scan the shadows for a shooter.
There’s yelling and another bullet is fired, clipping the bulletproof window.
My gaze snaps up to Kingston, finding his handgun raised and a hand pressed to his shoulder, blood seeping into the fibers of his shirt.
“Kingston—”
Without waiting, I get to my feet, angle him around, and push hard against his good side, forcing him into the back seat. Using my whole body, I drive him inside as another shot comes a whisper too close.
“Go!” I yell at the driver as I slam the door. “He’s been shot. Take us to the hospital. Move!”
Another shot pings against the truck as the driver tears into the street.
Inside the car, Kingston slumps against the leather, his breathing shallow and his gaze on me, trailing across my chest.
“You okay?” he grits out, voice low and strangled.
“Yeah… fine,” I lie, my hands slick with his blood. “Fuck—it’s pouring outta ya.”
Kingston winces as he drops his gun and fumbles inside his jacket. I grab his shoulder instinctively, trying to steady him, but he grits his teeth and powers through.
“It’ll be fine,” he mutters.
“Stop moving—”
But he’s already pulling out his phone, knuckles pale, breath ragged with effort.
He unlocks it and taps the screen with as much energy as he can muster, leaving smears of blood.
“Are you seriously texting Bronx right now? I can contact him from the hospital.”
He doesn’t answer. He just finishes the message and hits send.
Then his fingers loosen and the phone slips from his hand. He slumps back into the seat, sweat beading at his temples and blood everywhere.
“Message delivered,” he rasps. “Now stop looking like you’re about to cry, wife.”
“I’m not crying,” I snap, blinking fast. “But I swear to God, Kingston, if you pass out, I’m going to slap you back awake.”
He winks. Weak, but unmistakable. “That’s a side of you I’d love to see.”
I hitch up my dress, climb over the center console, straddle his lap, and tear open the buttons of his shirt, blood coating my fingers.
“Hmmm, baby… You’re enjoying this,” he says with a half smirk, still half-strangled with pain. “You gonna take advantage of a dying man?”
“Shut up,” I growl. “I’m keeping you alive.”
His head drops back, pulse slowing, but there’s heat in his eyes even now and I get the impression he wants to shove his tongue down my throat.
I press my hands over the wound in his shoulder to seal it, hoping the pressure will slow the bleeding. He flinches but lets me push down hard.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and focused, even through the pain.
“Stay down next time,” he murmurs, voice low. “You don’t take bullets for me, Livvie.”
Blood is everywhere. Hot and slick beneath my hands as it soaks through Kingston’s shirt and coats my fingers like the devil’s ink.
It’s seeping faster now, pulsing through the hole with every beat of his heart.
The color drains from his face and his lashes flutter.
“Don’t you fucking close your eyes on me, Kingston.”
One of his arms hangs useless at his side, limp from the hit. The other presses weakly over mine, fingers curling at the edge of my wrist like he’s still trying to reassure me.
“You’re losing too much,” I say, biting the words out like they’ll anchor me. “I need something—anything. A cloth, a belt, a—shit this won’t stop.”
I yank his jacket off, bundle it, and press it hard into the wound.
“You’re okay, Kingston,” I whisper. “I’ll stay with you, okay?”
He huffs a ragged breath. “I won’t die from a shit shot in the shoulder. If a Viacava falls, it’s from something fatal. Not a stupid flesh wound.”
“Then maybe try bleeding a little less dramatically,” I snap, blinking fast as I press harder. “Because you’re ruining your shirt and my fucking heart rate.”
“Thought you hated me, wife,” he rasps, his voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “Seems like married life isn’t the worst after all, huh?”
I narrow my eyes at him, refusing to let the panic show.
“I do hate you,” I mutter. “But the sex is pretty good… So I might downgrade it to a strong dislike until you piss me off again.”
Even through the blood loss, his smirk twitches alive for a second, crooked and smug.
“Good to know,” he murmurs, voice fading slightly. “If I do happen to die, I’ll go out flattered.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” My voice cracks.
The words rip out of me before I can stop them. Sharper than I mean. Louder than I want.
His eyes flutter open again, and they find mine. The smirk from earlier is gone, replaced by something softer.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice just a breath now. “Look at me.”
I already am. I haven’t stopped. I can’t.
“I’m not going anywhere, Livvie.” His gaze holds mine. “We’re in this fucking mess together. We’ll figure it out as husband and wife, okay?”
I huff a shaky breath and nod. “Yeah? Well, you’re doing a shit job of trying to stick it out.”
“I’ll be available to fuck your hot little cunt tomorrow,” he mutters. “I promise.”
The word shouldn't hit the way it does. But it does. Heavy and possessive and… warm. And I hate that it makes my chest ache.
I press both hands down harder on his wound, still trying to stop his blood from hemorrhaging all over the place, trying to hold him together with willpower, rage, and a weird pang that could be mistaken for devotion.
“You’re so pale,” I whisper. “You’re bleeding through two layers, and you smell like sweat and cologne and copper.”
He laughs under his breath. “Still turned on?”
I don’t smile this time, leaning closer instead, my forehead brushing his as everything inside me cracks open.
“I might hate you a little less than before, Kingston. And trusting you is definitely a challenge, but I don’t want you to die. Not like this.”
His eyes close for a beat. Then they open, glassy and intense.
And for one suspended breath, we just are. No threats. No games. Just heat and honesty and everything we’re not ready to admit.
He swallows hard. “You’d miss me, yeah?”
“No—” I lie. “I just don’t think Hell is ready for my husband yet.”
A smile ghosts across his bloodstained lips. It’s crooked. Tired. Still manages to cut me open.
“Cold, Livvie,” he rasps. “Sexy… and fucking cold.”
“You married me.” I press harder on the wound like I can force the truth back inside me with the blood. “That’s on you.”
He laughs, just a flicker of a rumble, but it catches in his throat like pain.
His lips twitch into something that might’ve been a grin if he weren’t actively bleeding to death. “Remind me to thank you for the heartfelt concern.”
“Bleed quieter,” I mutter, but it’s too soft to bite. I’m shaking now. Internally. Everywhere.
His hand brushes over mine again, weak but affectionate. He looks up at me through half-lidded eyes, and his voice drops an octave, all raspy and mumbled.
“I owe you.”
I blink. “What?”
He exhales a small sigh. “For this. For… giving a fuck about me.”
“Don’t be dramatic. I’d do the same for anyone.”
“Liar.” A ghost of a smile touches his mouth again. “What do I owe you, Livvie?”
My throat tightens as I blink him in, and despite the blood, pain, smudged lines of control, he’s still powerful and breathtaking. Still him.
And yet there’s something more now. Something human beneath that violent, cocky facade.
“How about you promise not to die before I get the chance to strangle you myself?” I joke.
He grunts. “Kinky.”
“Not in the fun way,” I mutter, brushing hair from his forehead, my fingers leaving streaks of blood.
His eyes close, then open again slower. This time, when he looks at me, it’s with sincerity.
“Look… Livvie, I need to tell you something,” he says, voice hoarse.
“What?”
Before he can answer, the car jerks to a stop and the doors fly open at both sides. Bright lights flood in, followed by chaos, shouts, hands, and a stretcher.
There are medics everywhere, ticking off things I can’t process fast enough. Kingston is pulled from under me, and I scramble out behind, still reaching for him.
“Wait, he’s my husband. I need to stay with him.”
No one listens.
They’re wheeling him away on the stretcher, an oxygen mask pressed to his face as one of them barks vitals and another peels his bloody shirt away.
“Pulse weak but steady… Entry wound left shoulder, possibly a through-and-through… Keep pressure on—”
“I’m coming with him,” I snap, hot on their heels as they rush him into the glaring lights of the ER.
But just before the sliding doors can close behind us, a nurse in scrubs steps in front of me, palms out, blocking my path.
“Ma’am, you need to wait here. We’ll update you as soon as we can.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m going in… he’ll want me with him.”
“Ma’am.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “We’re doing everything we can. But you can’t follow into the trauma bay.”
I open my mouth to argue, rage swelling like it always does when someone tells me no, but then I stagger back, blood-streaked and trembling, just as the doors swing shut between us, cutting me off from him.
The hallway is cold. Too bright. And far too quiet for what’s happening behind that glass.
While I pace, Bronx Viacava explodes into the corridor like a lit fuse.
He reeks of expensive bourbon and fury, his suit jacket half-buttoned, his tie shoved into his pocket.
His phone is pressed to his ear, and his voice cuts through the sterile air like an explosion.
“Find out who did this,” he barks, not even looking at me yet. “I want names, locations, blood types—I don’t care if they’re halfway to the fucking airport, you drag them back and put them on their knees.”
His eyes finally land on me, still standing there with Kingston’s blood on my hands, my dress stained and rumpled, my chest heaving.
Bronx stalks toward me, all muscle and menace, like he’s ready to throw someone out a window just for breathing wrong.
His jaw is tight, his phone still clutched in one hand like he’s debating who to call next and how many bodies need to burn.
I lift my chin, forcing composure into my spine, even though my legs want to buckle.
“What the fuck happened?”
“He was hit outside NV.” I fold my arms over my chest. “One shot to the shoulder. A few more shots. One, maybe two, I think. I shoved him inside the car, stripped off his jacket to stop the bleeding, and kept him awake all the way here.”
Bronx’s gaze flicks over me like he’s cataloguing damage or hunting for cracks. “Very precise. Neat. Almost like you rehearsed it, little Livvie?”
My jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”
He takes a step closer, the smell of whiskey clinging to his breath. “It’s convenient, that’s all. He’s lying on a fucking stretcher and you’re calm, saying all the right things. Feels… practiced.”
“You think I set him up?” My voice drops into something cold enough to cut marble.
Bronx lifts his hands half-heartedly. “I think you’re your father’s daughter. And no matter how good you look in a dress covered in Viacava blood, you’re still an O’Callaghan.”
My pulse kicks hard.
“You’re lucky Kingston’s still breathing,” I hiss at him. “Because if I’d let him bleed out, you’d be on your knees trying to explain how your own brother was gunned down in front of his wife.”
Bronx scrubs his face as he considers me. But before he can shoot back another insult, a wave of men in dark suits flood the corridor.
Bronx curses under his breath. “He’s here.”
I already know who’s coming.
Lorenzo Viacava appears like a judge entering his courtroom. His shoulders are squared, hands behind his back, silver cutting through his dark hair like blade marks.
He doesn’t speak to Bronx or ask about Kingston. Instead, his eyes lock on me like I’m a problem to be solved.
“Secure the floor,” he says calmly. Then, without looking away from me, he says, “Remove her.”
The words don’t register at first. “What?”
“She’s a potential threat,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Until we verify who pulled the trigger and who gave the order, she stays off this floor.”
Two suited guards move toward me, and my body tenses. For a beat, Bronx stares at me as if he’s about to stop them. He doesn't, though, and just watches them crowd me.
“Are you serious?” I bite out. “They shot at both of us. I tried to help him.”
Lorenzo’s mouth curls slightly. “I’ll make sure to inform the paparazzi of your wifely devotion. It’ll make a wonderful story.”
He clicks his fingers, dismissing me, and turns to Bronx.
And just like that, I understand that I may be Kingston’s wife, but I’m still not one of them.
Two Viacava soldiers flank me without a word, each one gripping an elbow like I’m a threat instead of the reason Kingston is still breathing.
I don’t fight them. There’s no point getting into it today. But my teeth grind and my hands curl into fists at my sides, itching to see Kingston and furious the Viacavas think they can control me now.
They walk me down the corridor, past wide-eyed nurses and guards who pretend not to notice how I’m escorted like a prisoner dressed in a blood-spattered gown.
When the main doors slide open, the night air bites at my skin. The parking lot hums under the hospital’s glow, quiet except for idling engines and a siren wailing somewhere in the distance.
I’m led past a few ambulances, where a black SUV is waiting. One guy lights up a cigarette, hip resting on the hood, and the other mumbles something through the comms device in his ear.
As I slow, a man brushes past me. Fast. Hood up. Barely noticeable. He doesn’t say a word. Just bumps into me with a little too much force.
“Watch it,” one of the guards growls, but the man’s already gone, swallowed into the night.
I blink, then glance down. In my hand there’s a small folded piece of paper that he’d dropped into my palm without anyone noticing.
I glance at the guards who’re assessing the area and take the opportunity to move farther into the shadows, just enough to pretend I’m catching my breath.
I unfold it. The font is typed and the message is short.
The Red Tribunal has summoned you. Do not speak of this meeting to anyone or face the consequences. You’ll receive the address via text message tomorrow, one hour in advance.
My stomach knots.
I’ve just been exiled from Kingston’s side by his father. Branded as a threat. And now the most dangerous shadow organization in the mafia world wants to speak to me.
Alone.
Tomorrow.
My fingers close around the paper, heart thudding.
I don’t know if this is a warning or an opportunity.
But either way… it could change everything.