Chapter 12
Maximo
Enzo’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears as he yells into his phone. “Sweep the warehouse! Anything we can use, load it up in the trucks. Destroy any cameras or surveillance gear. Everything else—burn it. Move your asses, people, before the cops get there!”
I’m more than happy to let him take point while I settle myself in the back seat, trying to shift my left leg into a position that isn’t agony.
My calf burns like fire, but it isn’t the worst of it.
Every breath I take scrapes against my ribs, a hot reminder that even a ballistic vest can only do so much to protect the human body.
Constance reaches down to grab my ankles and pull my legs up into her lap. I try to wave her off, but she seems determined to roll up the leg of my suit pants and assess the damage. She holds up her phone for light and inhales sharply as she sees the blood leaking from the bullet wound.
“I’m fine,” I assure her.
“You’re not fine, you’re bleeding!” she says as she pulls off my shoe and sock, then ties the sock around the wound. Constance’s hands tremble slightly as she ties the makeshift tourniquet. She doesn’t try to hide it from me, and something about that hits me harder than the bullet.
“Lie back and stop fidgeting!”
She barks the order like she’s the one in charge. Like she commands me.
Fuck, I think part of me wants her to.
“You’re bossy,” I shoot back, but it comes out half-hearted. And I can’t help but grumble, “You’re also insane for stepping out in the open like you did. You could have been killed.”
“So could you. Guess we’re even,” Constance says as she tightens the sock around my leg.
Enzo makes another call, glancing back at us in the rearview mirror. “I’m getting you back to the estate. I’ll have Vitoli meet us there.”
Dr. Michael Vitoli. One of the few men I trust to put me back together without asking too many questions or reporting the bullet wound to anyone with a badge. “That’s good, Enzo. Thank you. You too, Constance. I think you saved my life.”
She doesn’t reply as she holds pressure on my calf. The adrenaline is wearing thin, and my leg throbs in time with my heartbeat. Constance stays pressed close, my legs still across her lap, her wide, concerned eyes on me instead of the city rushing past.
It takes over an hour to get back to my estate in Scarsdale. When we roll through the gates, Enzo and Constance help me inside. Vitoli is already waiting in the foyer. He’s in his late fifties, dressed in an immaculate blue suit, with a black medical bag in hand. He doesn’t waste time on greetings.
“Sit him down there.” He points to the leather couch in the sitting room like it’s an operating table.
Enzo and Constance help me lower myself down on the cushions. Vitoli crouches in front of me and pulls scissors from his bag, cutting away the damp pants and removing the sock Constance tied around the wound.
“It looks like the bullet passed through cleanly, in and out through the muscle. You’re lucky,” Dr. Vitoli mutters as he cleans the wound. “Another inch higher and you’d be spending the night in an operating room instead of your own bed.”
He works quickly, stitching me up with practiced hands. I keep my gaze on Constance. She’s standing just behind him, her arms folded, jaw set like stone. She looks as though she wants the man who pulled the trigger to rise from the dead so that she can shoot him again.
Vitoli finishes and wraps my leg. Then, he and Enzo together help me pull my shirt and vest off. I can’t help the groans that escape me as he pokes around my chest. “You’ve either cracked or broken at least two ribs,” he observes. “You’ll need x-rays so I can be sure. For now, take it easy.”
“He doesn’t know the definition of that word,” Enzo remarks with a smirk.
“Get him up to bed,” Vitoli orders. “I’ll give you something to help with the pain tonight.”
Constance and Enzo help me make my way gingerly up the stairs and to my bedroom.
Stripping off my tattered pants, I fall heavily into my bed.
Vitoli preps a syringe, taps it twice, and drives the needle into my arm.
“This painkiller will make you drowsy. Sleep, stay hydrated, and don’t do anything stupid until I clear you. ”
“That’s going to be a tall order,” Enzo mutters.
Vitoli ignores him, packs his bag, and leaves.
I lean back against the headboard, letting the drugs loosen my grip on the pain. My eyes drift to Constance. She’s still standing by the bed, watching me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she blinks. And without me, she won’t be able to get her revenge.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say, my voice low, almost slurred from exhaustion.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she replies, as she walks around the bed and begins piling up pillows to prop up beside me. “You might need something tonight.”
“What I need…” I start but stop when she drops her eyebrows and kills the argument with a look that could silence a room full of armed men. “Fine.”
She stays by my side, silent and steady. Her gaze never wavers from me.
I should send her away. Put space between us to remind both of us what we really are to each other—that she hates me and that I’m terrified I’ll fail her the same way I failed her father.
Instead, all I can think is that I want to fall asleep with her still guarding the door.
Warmth from the injection spreads, heavy and slow, dragging me under. The last thing I see before the darkness pulls me under is Constance, chin in her hands, keeping watch like a sentry.
If anyone wants to get past her tonight, they’ll have to kill her first.
And God help them if they try.