CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
ELIO
The elevator dings, sending a wave of excitement through me.
It’s been hours since Saint left, and I was already expecting him.
I stir the soup quickly and place the lid carefully over the pot before moving to the living room.
Bernard storms in, out of breath, eyes wide with an expression I can’t name.
My face contorts with confusion, but the older man stops on his heels when he sees me.
“Where is Saint?” My voice trembles.
“Pack a bag.”
“What?” My voice shakes.
“Pack your bag.” He repeats.
I move, hurrying upstairs, pushing through the pain that stabs consistently in my stomach.
I find a backpack in the dressing room, and I shove some clothes into it, then I pick up my medication from the vanity cabinet in the bathroom and head downstairs.
I return to the living room, backpack straps on my shoulder, and my gaze lands on the unsettled man in front of me.
“We have to go.”
My eyes find the guitar lying on the leather couch. I surge forward and lift it into my arms. Before I can dash to the kitchen, Bernard’s hand closes around my arm and drags me toward the elevator.
“I already turned off the stove and flushed it down the sink.”
“What about Saint?” My heart hammers furiously against my chest. We enter the elevator together, and the machine whirs as it glides down to the underground parking lot.
Every part of my thought races with questions.
Why did he just barge into the apartment?
Where is he taking me? Where is Saint? What happened to him?
My chest squeezes with discomfort mixed with the pain of my unhealed injuries.
The doors ding and open to the parking lot.
Just then, an incoming SUV screeches to a halt as three armed men spill out through the doors.
Bernard pushes me behind him and pulls his gun, a silent pistol.
He aims at one of them and shoots, taking a headshot.
I move briskly, hiding behind the front bumper.
Sharp, intensely muffled, lower-pitched sound explode in the air, sending a concussive shock through my body.
I remain there.
Plastered against the concrete floor of the lot. Back pressed against the bumper.
Stuck in the memory of David holding a gun to me. A shiver runs down my spine. A bullet pierces through the side mirror of the car, glass shattering. My hands find my head instinctively, pressing against my ears, a broken cry burning through my throat.
Beside me, Bernard grunts as he takes a hit.
He falls to his knees, but it doesn’t stop him from taking another shot at the enemy.
The gunshot stops, and silence twists with tension.
Trembling, heart slamming against my ribcage, I get on my feet and see that the three men are lying in a pool of their own blood.
Bernard regains his footing, hand buried into his injury as he bleeds out on the floor.
I don’t waste a second. My body trembles as I look at him, too terrified to do anything.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck me!
This is not the time to be terrified.
Bernard could die.
I move toward him, and I put my hand around his shoulder, leading him to the black Bentley.
“You have to drive.” He whispers.
I didn’t know why he was doing this for me. Maybe Saint had asked him to evacuate me from here.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To Ali’s place, just off the city’s main bridge.” He reaches for his phone in his pocket. “Can you drive?”
“I have only tried once.” I answer.
He grips my shoulder and looks into my eyes, expression absolute. “Elio, I need you to do this. If you don’t, I’ll die.”
“I won’t let you die. Now get in.” I whisper, voice trembling.
I slam the door once he’s in and circle the bonnet, getting into the driver’s seat.
I shrug off my backpack and place the gig bag on the side seat.
I insert the key into the ignition switch.
Rapid breaths spill from my lungs as my chest constricts.
I grip the steering and take in deep breaths.
The car makes a deep, refined roar as it comes to life.
I step on the gas and peel off, driving into the city.
“Are you sure they won’t find us?” I look over my shoulder. He has his phone in his hand. I don’t know who he’s texting, but I’m pretty sure it’s someone who can help.
“Keep driving.”
“Alright. Just keep your eyes open, okay. Stay with me.” I utter.
I press harder on the gas and then switch to the brakes.
The car jerks to a halt, almost colliding with a black sedan.
The man behind the wheel yells and throws his middle finger through the half-opened front door window.
I put the car in reverse and weave through the traffic ahead of me.
Halfway out of the city, I look over my shoulder and see Bernard lying motionless in the back seat, bleeding out on the leather.
“Bernard!” I clamor. “Bernard, wake up!” I bellow, and his eyes snap open. “You need to stay alive.” I declare.
The city blurs through the rearview mirror as I get onto the bridge through a roundabout intersection. “Bernard, are you still here?”
“Yes,” he whispers, voice fragile. “He has a red car.” Bernard whispers behind me.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel, heart racing a thousand miles, as I keep my gaze off the windshield. After a while, the car comes off at the end of the bridge. My eyes scan the surrounding area for a red car.
I step on the brakes when I see a red sedan parked on the side of the road. The man wearing a burgundy leather jacket over a white top moves toward me. I get out of the car with my backpack and Bernard’s gun, pointing it at him.
“Are you Ali?” I demand, even though my hands are trembling.
“Yes, where is he?” He raises his hand in surrender.
“He’s hurt. He got shot, and he’s bleeding.”
“I can help. We need to get off the road and get him to my cabin.”
“Alright. I’ll drive.” I get back to the wheel and follow the red car straight to a cabin in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a forest of trees.
The car stops in front of the house, and Ali gets out, moving toward my car. He unlocks the door and takes Bernard into his hands, muscles flexing as he supports his weight. Breathing heavily, he surges toward the entrance and kicks it in.
There’s a bed and a box of medical supplies waiting in the open living room. He was already aware of our predicament even before we arrived.
He places Bernard on the bed. “Get him naked.” He gives the order.
I toss my bag on the couch and place the gig bag carefully beside it.
I get on the bed, pulling off Bernard’s suit jacket.
I tear through his shirt, a quiet gasp leaving my lips when I see the tattoos on his chest. Not just that, but Ali’s name on his skin.
Sharp, crooked letters done with the sharp edge of a blade.
Then my eyes snap to the bullet wound pulsing with blood.
“Check if there’s an exit wound.” He puts on disposable hand gloves.
I grunt and pull him over, seeing the bullet hole in his back.
“Yes, there’s one.”
“Check for a pulse.”
My hands fly to his neck, and the thrum of his vein stutters against my skin. “It’s steady.”
“Good.” He kneels on the bed and checks the exit wound first. He presses, and Bernard makes a muffled groan.
“Shh, my love.” He says. “You will be alright. I promise.” He looks up at me. “Get over here and give me the saline. White bottle.”
I pick up the bottle and hand it to him.
He twists the cover open, then spills the liquid on the wound.
The liquid runs rust-red across his skin, dripping onto the bed.
Ali’s jaw tightens, hands trembling only a bit.
Memories flash in my head, and I see the overhead fluorescent lights and the pale blue walls of the hospital as nurses run down the hallway.
“Is it working?” I ask to take my mind off the recollection of the night I was shot.
I don’t remember anything after Cross took me from Saint’s arms. Besides, more information means I get to feel less panic.
“I hope so.” He mutters. “Suture kit.”
I dig into the medical supplies and hand them to him.
“Come on, get on the bed and hold his shoulders.” I climb onto the bed, hands pressing into his sticky, pale brown skin, holding the big man down.
Ali sews him back together. The needle goes in and out of his tender flesh, thread tightening his skin together.
A raw sound leaves Bernard’s throat. He winces and grips the mattress.
“Almost done, my love. Almost done.” Ali’s gaze locks on Bernard’s face.
The man’s in pain. Excruciating pain.
Ali finishes with the entrance wound, and I hold him on his side while he sews up the exit wound.
“All good now.” Ali whispers, and Bernard smiles at him.
“Is there anything else we should do?”
“Antibiotics.” He takes out a vial and uses a syringe to draw the liquid, then he injects it into Bernard’s veins. He sighs and squats over the bed, watching Bernard breathe. “We just have to monitor his vitals. He’ll survive.”
“Alright.”
“You can shower. Get this blood off you. There’s food in the fridge, and I’ll get you sleeping pillows.” He sounds steadier than before.
“Alright. Can I get some fresh bandages?” I lift my shirt and show him my wound.
“Oh, if you need help, I’m here.”
“I can do it on my own.”
“Alright.” He nods.
I grab my bag, and I move down the amber-lit hallway, stepping into the bathroom.
The door groans behind me, and an exhausted breath escapes me as my lungs deflate. I peel off my clothes and put them in a pile on the vanity. My gaze lifts to the mirror as I grip the edges of the polished surface and stare at my reflection.
I slowly unroll the bandage around my injury and toss it into the bin.
I enter the glass enclosure and turn on the shower.
I place my hand on the surface and lean over as the water spills over my back, uncurling the tension in my muscles.
A shaky breath spills out of me, my mind quickly returning to Saint.
Regret washes over me as my thoughts scatter.
My fingers clench and unclench into fists.
Once again, I’m the one running.
I’m the one hiding.
The one without power.
How the fuck am I going to save Saint? I can’t stay out here free and unharmed knowing that his father might have put him in that godforsaken place. It has to be the Red Vault. There’s no other reason why Bernard and I had to leave the city in short notice.
How long do I have to be the easy target?
I desperately needed answers, but I could only get them if Bernard survived.
If he’s in there, then I’ll get him out. I have to.
I remember how Dr. Khadija analyzed my emotions. I’m here, anxious and overwhelmed because I was just taken away from a happy place, forced to drive a dying man across the city.
This isn’t happening to me because I’m broken or because I’m a monster.
This is happening because Saint’s father can’t do the simple act of loving his son.
I can get through tonight without my emotions pouring over the surface.
When I finish, I leave the shower and dry my skin with a towel. I wrap my wound with the bandage, then I throw on a button shirt and a pair of shorts and join Ali in the living room.