Chapter 15
Her expression hardensat the sight of my nephew. But when I offer her my hand, I practically witness steel infusin’ her spine. She lifts her chin a notch, ignores my hand, and exits the vehicle.
“The fuck is she doin’ here?” Andro’s accusatory tone grates on my nerves.
I pin him with my scathin’ glare, my tone ripe with warnin’. “What’d I tell you about questionin’ my decisions?”
My nephew scowls like a petulant child instead of the twenty-year-old he is. Words emergin’ disjointed and forced from between gritted teeth, rephrasin’ his response appears to pain him. “Just wonderin’ why she’s here.”
“To talk.”
His mouth parts, no doubt with the intention of probin’ further, but snaps closed once he thinks better of it.
When I place my hand at the base of Miss Arias’s spine to encourage her to move forward, she shrugs me off and sidesteps me.
I grit my teeth, vyin’ for a thread of patience with this woman, and gesture toward the open doors where Gordo waits for us. “After you, Miss Arias.”
With her bag secure to her body, she strides ahead. Her hair’s in its typical low ponytail, gently swayin’ with each determined step.
Wearin’ a simple dark blue T-shirt and matchin’ leggin’s that disappear into her black rubber boots, she shouldn’t look this appealin’. Andro trails me as I follow her inside.
Once she draws to a stop in the expansive foyer, I brush past her and head down the hallway on our left. “Come with me.”
She grumbles somethin’ before mutterin’, “I’m going.”
I enter my office and round my large desk. Pausin’ at the small fridge built into the bookshelves linin’ my office walls, I cast her a questionin’ glance.
“Imperial?”
She stands, paused at the threshold. Suspicion radiates off her as she inspects the interior space. “No, thanks.”
I pull out a beer for myself and twist off the top before lowerin’ myself into my leather desk chair. I don’t say a word; I just watch and wait for her to finally decide to enter.
From her perch in the doorway, her keen inspection sweeps over the multitude of spines in my shelved collection in a caress only a book lover would recognize. Her eyes widen for a moment before she schools her expression.
She doesn’t look my way when she poses the question. “You’ve read all those?”
I take a long drink before answerin’. Mostly to stifle the foreign-as-fuck eagerness risin’ inside me. Eagerness to give her an answer that earns her approval. Which is fucked up, because I don’t need anybody’s approval.
I don’t ask for it and never will.
Maybe I need to get laid. That’s the only reason a random woman would be gettin’ me all twisted like some pathetic fuckboy.
“Of course. Why else would I have ’em on my shelves?”
Her feet shift, but she still hovers in the doorway. She must be thinkin’ the moment she fully steps foot in here, somethin’ bad’s gonna happen to her.
If I was plannin’ that, I wouldn’t bother invitin’ her in here. Not that she needs to know that. But aside from my bedroom, my office is my other sanctuary. No way do I wanna get fuckin’ blood spatter on my shit, ’specially not my books.
I glance down at the one I’ve always got open and marked. Usually, I just flip it open to whatever section I feel like and choose somethin’ good.
Gordo likes to give me shit about it, but I’ve caught him readin’ it, too. Some guys in this line of work think it’s all muscle and intimidation that gets you places. But I know that’s not always the case.
I gotta have a head on my shoulders. Gotta be a critical thinker and simply be smarter than my opponents. At the end of the day, if I can outsmart somebody and avoid puttin’ myself and my men in danger, that’s a bigger victory in my mind.
Acrimony: a rough and bitter manner
A smirk tugs at my mouth, ’cause I’d say that fits me most days.
“Have a seat, Miss Arias.” I nod toward one of the chairs opposite my desk.
Visibly hesitatin’, she casts a glance down the hallway at Gordo, I presume. When she does a double take, her entire body goin’ stiff, my senses go on high alert. She sucks in a harsh breath and her eyes go wide, all the color drainin’ from her face.
If there’s a fuckin’ threat in my own goddamn home, I’m damn sure gonna take care of it.
I act on instinct, not hesitatin’. My beer’s down and my weapon’s in my hand as I launch myself over my desk, gettin’ to the door in time to witness Andro come into view.
With his gun pointed directly at her, the reason for her reaction falls into place.
“Andro,” Gordo growls from behind my nephew. “Put it down.”
My nephew doesn’t give any indication he plans to listen. He’s laser-focused on his target—her. “She’s not to be trusted. I’m tellin’ you, Tio?1, she’s bad news.” He advances on her, arm outstretched, bringin’ his gun barely a foot away from her face.
Before I can respond, she swiftly sidesteps him and grips both hands around his wrist, forcin’ the weapon’s aim toward the floor.
Rapid fire, bullets hit the baseboards and edge of the tile floor, sprayin’ splinters in the air, forcin’ me to take a step back. Gordo’s shouts mingle with my own above the ringin’ in my ears from the gunshots.
With a determined grunt, Lola shoves her entire body against Andro’s, propellin’ him off-balance before he slams into the wall. The force has the gun droppin’ from his grip, and she kicks it away, sendin’ it skiddin’ across the floor toward Gordo.
When Andro pulls out a four-inch blade, dread pools in my gut.
“Andro!” Frustration and anger bleed through in my shout. Goddammit. The last thing I want or need is somebody dyin’ in my fuckin’ house, but I also know this would eliminate my current complication: Lola Arias.
Even if she comes out on top, this is an assbeatin’ that’s long overdue for my nephew. That’s what has me standin’ back and watchin’ shit go down. Waitin’.
The instant he lunges for Lola, she deflects his move by swingin’ her arm up, the base of her palm collidin’ with Andro’s nose. He curses, reachin’ one hand up to touch his now bleedin’ nose. She uses it to her advantage, wrappin’ her hands around the blade.
They wrestle for control of the knife, her grunted words pushed from between gritted teeth.
“Just…let go…before…you…get hurt…you…fucking asshole.”
She’s petite but strong and determined. That’s evident in the desperate way she fights back and rams her elbow into his ribs. She’s undoubtedly feisty as hell.
Andro appears to overpower her with a downward thrust of the knife, but after a flurry of motion, his painful groan sounds in the next moment. Lola launches herself away from him, openin’ up the view.
Fuck.
A dazed Andro stares down at his lower abdomen where a streak of blood stains his shirt, growin’ damper by the second. The knife falls from his limp fingers and bounces off the tile floor.
“Shit.” I shove my gun in its holster as my nephew drops to his knees, his face turnin’ more and more pale.
Lola darts a frantic look my way. In the next instant, she drops down beside my nephew. The speed that Andro’s shirt is becomin’ more saturated has Gordo and me collectively suckin’ in a sharp breath. ’Cause we know knife wounds, and this one’s not good. Not good at all.
Movements frantic, she tears off her bag, tossin’ it aside before pullin’ off her T-shirt to reveal her gray sports bra. When she presses her cotton shirt against Andro’s wound, he lets out a pained grunt. She ignores him and barks out orders.
“We need to get him on a table and clean his wound before I stitch him up.”
Her head whips around to me and Gordo. “Come on! Now! And don’t jostle him when you carry him to the table.”
Gordo and I exchange a look like The fuck? before I take a menacin’ step forward. “You expect me to believe you’re gonna stitch up his fuckin’ stomach?”
She stares me straight in the eye without any hesitation. “Yes. I do.”
I study her, scourin’ for any indication she’s fuckin’ with me. When I don’t find any, I signal for my men to help us move Andro. In a matter of seconds, we haul my nephew down the hall to the large dinin’ room table.
Lola shoves the fancy centerpiece out of the way without a second thought and we ease Andro onto the table. My other men stand by, their hands on their holstered weapons, unsure of what to do.
She doesn’t hesitate to order them around. “I need paper towels—any towels you can find—and a syringe of lidocaine or whatever the hell you have on hand.”
Livin’ this remote, we keep shit like lidocaine, morphine, and antibiotics on hand for emergencies. But hearin’ her bark out orders with all the confidence in the world is somethin’ else entirely.
“I need plenty of saline to clean this—or a bottle of goddamn vodka—whatever you find first. Scissors, latex gloves, and tweezers.” When they stare at her in disbelief, her frantic tone sharpens. “Now!”
They automatically look at me, and I nod, givin’ ’em permission to heed her orders. “Get her the medical kit from the front closet.”
Lola Arias becomes more and more intriguin’, it seems. Nowhere in her background did it mention that she had any medical experience. Yet the moment my men provide those requested supplies, she yells for someone to grab her sewin’ kit from her bag.
She pulls on the latex gloves and makes quick work of cuttin’ away Andro’s shirt. When she gently touches the area around his wound, he howls in pain and attempts to backhand her, but I catch it in time.
“You’ve done enough.” My words are muted but filled with an obvious reprimand. He wouldn’t be in this situation if he’d kept his cool. If he’d shown that he was a man instead of a punk-ass kid.
Body wrought with tension, Lola glances at the open med kit lyin’ beside her before meetin’ my eyes. “He’ll need an injection of lidocaine?—”
“Don’t let this fuckin’ bitch touch me!”
Her lips flatten with irritation, but her tone is calm when she addresses Andro. “Then you better brace yourself for intense pain.”
His protest is instant. “The fuck? No way am I gonna let you?—”
She cuts him off. “You need this wound closed to prevent infection from setting in.” When he sputters, she continues, talkin’ right over him. “I’d suggest you be as numb as possible.”
She gingerly places her hands along his abdominal area, and a concentrated crease between her brows mars her pretty features. “I need better light over this area.” So focused on her task, she barely offers a thank you when my men bring over two additional lamps.
Lola silently cleans the area before preppin’ Andro for the injection.
“I need him to remain completely still.” She announces this calmly before liftin’ her gaze to mine. “But first, he needs lidocaine before I start suturing.”
“Fuck,” Andro groans, his words slightly slurred from the pain. His whinin’ is a goddamn embarrassment. “Don’t let her do this. She fuckin’ attacked me! Tío, you saw it!”
I ignore him and command Gordo and two of my strongest men to help me restrain him.
Once we’re in place, my eyes briefly meet Lola’s before she draws in a deep breath. She administers the lidocaine with deft movements, and Andro’s body relaxes a fraction.
Without missin’ a beat, she grabs the bottles of saline and cleans the entire wound, the painful-lookin’ streak of split flesh along the bottom of his abdomen just above his waistband.
Carefully blottin’ the area with paper towels, she withdraws a small bottle of cayenne pepper from her things. My eyes track her movements as she sprinkles a liberal amount over the wound.
I frown, and Gordo meets my eyes with another The fuck is she doin’? look.
As if hearin’ our thoughts, Lola mutters without lookin’ up. “It stops excessive bleeding and helps the healing process.” As an almost afterthought, she adds, “And it doesn’t contaminate the wound, either.”
A moment later, her voice stern and commandin’, it cuts through the air with authority. “Grab me the largest suture needle and thread in that med kit.”
When she sees what one of my men has pulled from the kit at her request, she stops in her tracks. A severe frown mars her beautiful face. “That’s the largest one?”
With her lips pursed at the sight of the suturin’ needle, she reaches for her sewin’ kit. Flippin’ one of the inner flaps back, she withdraws an extremely thin but large hooked needle and a tool I’ve seen our doc use to assist with suturin’.
Gordo and I exchange another look, ’cause we both know that needle sure as hell isn’t for regular sewin’. This one’s specifically made for stitchin’ up flesh.
With fast precision, she threads the needle and uses the tool to feed the needle through Andro’s skin with a sleek swoop.
When my nephew howls in protest of the first stitch, “Get this fuckin’ bitch away from me!” and starts thrashin’, she grunts before commandin’, “Hold him still!”
With a look of utter concentration, she braces a hand against his hip. Her movements are fluid and confident, her features a mask of fierce concentration. As she feeds the threaded needle through his skin, making one stitch after the next, there’s a slight tremble in her left hand that’s braced near the wound. Those slim, inked fingers flex randomly.
When my nephew’s body goes listless, my men start forward, intent on tearin’ her away from him. Before I can say a word, though, her searin’ look and words stop ’em in their tracks.
“Don’t touch me if you want him to live and not die of infection.” Coolly returnin’ her attention to her task, she mutters, “He’s unconscious, not dead, you morons.”
Under her breath, barely audible, she hisses, “If I wanted the asshole dead, would I bother with any of this?”
Her left hand remains splayed around the wound, and those tattooed butterflies decoratin’ the top of her hand and their wings extendin’ to her knuckles flex with each twitch of her fingers. It gives the impression they’re cravin’ to be involved in the process.
Once she’s finished and has sprinkled another application of cayenne pepper over the stitched flesh, she secures a bandage overtop the wound. Her shoulders slump in what I assume is relief or exhaustion. It’s hard to say which.
Settin’ down her needle with more care than I would’ve anticipated, she releases a long breath. “He’ll need to rest and be monitored for any signs of infection, just in case.”
I study her movements as she removes her gloves like I’ve seen our doc do countless times before. She’s not new to this sort of thing, that much is clear.
Gordo murmurs, “Doc’s on his way.”
Ourdoctor—the one who takes care of our people without any record of shit goin’ down.
“Miss Arias,” I address the unusually quiet woman across from me. “Gordo’ll show you where you can clean up.”
As if suddenly realizin’ she’s only in her sports bra and leggin’s, both now stained with blood, she peers down at herself. A little crease forms between her brows.
Streaks of red decorate her bare skin above and below her bra, and her hands are discolored as well. She nods, wrappin’ her arms across her chest, and dutifully follows Gordo down the hall.
I signal for my staff to clean up the mess on the dinin’ room table and rest my back against the wall. My focus remains on the bloodstained cloths Lola used as they’re bein’ disposed of while the medical supplies will be properly sterilized.
“Don’t toss that sewin’ kit.” My words emerge in a short, clipped command, and my staff acknowledges it.
When Gordo rejoins me, I mutter under my breath, “The fuck is a house cleaner doin’ with a sewin’ kit with needles for stitchin’ up people?”
“Somethin’ sure don’t seem right.” He casts a glance around us before lowerin’ his voice to not be overheard. “She seemed off when I showed her to the bathroom. Like she was in a daze.” He slides me a look that resembles concern before addin’, “Kept starin’ down at her hands.”
My sharp gaze cuts to him, and he holds up his palms in surrender. “Just sayin’ what I saw.” He falls quiet for a beat as we stare at the table my staff is makin’ quick work of cleanin’. “She seemed to know what she was doin’.”
A rumble climbs up my throat. “Yeah. She sure as fuck did.” I reach up to grip the tense muscles in the back of my neck. “Didn’t hesitate one second.”
Gordo dips his chin in a curt nod of agreement before I pose the question that’s been naggin’ at me. “You think he was really gonna shoot her?”
“Safety was off.”
“And he tried to gut her with that blade.”
“Yeah.” Gordo releases a heavy breath. “Yeah, he did.” He shakes his head. “Andro’s been gettin’ worse. He had no right to do any of that. It’s downright underminin’ you.”
I grunt. “Kid’s become a fuckin’ bloody hemorrhoid.”
My friend lets out a choked laugh. “So true, boss. So damn true.” A pause lingers. “She knew he was gonna kill ’er, ’cause she fought him hard.”
He tosses another glance around us before centerin’ his attention on me, his voice more muted. “She seemed to know exactly where to apply pressure to get his hand to fold. But it ain’t her fault he did that. She was fightin’ for her life.”
I scowl at him. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Just sayin’.” He lifts one massive shoulder in a shrug. “Some of the guys might see it the wrong way.”
I know what he’s sayin’. She’s an outsider, and we protect our own at all costs.
Which means Lola Arias quite possibly has a fuckin’ target on her back. And, in this case, I’m not the one who put it there.
“Then we’ll just have to set ’em straight. Need you to make it known right now.” My tone is firm, and there’s no mistakin’ the flash of surprise on Gordo’s face.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A gleam of somethin’ enters his gaze, and it doesn’t dim at my glare. “You invited her into your office.”
I bristle but remain stoic. “And?”
He raises a brow. “You don’t invite just anybody in there.”
I grit my teeth, my tone arctic. “What’s your point.” I don’t bother to phrase it as a question.
I shouldn’t have invited her into my office. The conference room is where I meet with outsiders. With those not on my direct payroll who I haven’t vetted thoroughly.
But it felt like the right choice at the time to have Miss Arias enter my office—a better way to set her at ease and get her to confess whatever she might be hidin’.
“What’s my point? Oh, nothin’. Just curious.” He mashes his lips together as if he’s suppressin’ a grin and fuck if I don’t wanna backhand it off his damn face. “First, you invited her into your office. Now, you’re tellin’ me to set everybody straight on what happened between her and Andro.” He shrugs. “You always say we protect our own. This you doin’ that?”
I glare at him before turnin’ to head to my office. “No. Now, fuck off.”
Of course, that asshole’s laughter trails after me.