Chapter 33 Isabella #2
“Don’t apologize,” he manages. “Harder. Like you’re trying to close a door.”
I put everything into it, leaning my whole weight into my hands. My knees press into the seat, my body angled awkwardly over the console. It feels obscene, invading this space, fingers pushed into him, but the alternative is worse.
Blood still seeps around my palms, hot and sticky, running in thin lines down my wrists. It feels like I can’t possibly be doing enough.
Marco is talking fast into the radio, words tumbling: “Shots fired, minor collision, one down, requesting ambulance, secure location, five blocks from base.” He rattles off cross streets. I can hardly hear them over the pounding in my ears.
“Stay with me,” I tell Rossi, because that’s what they say in movies, and because the idea of him not doing that right now isn’t something I can entertain.
He gives a faint snort. “You weigh less than this bullet wound,” he mutters. “You’ll have to be bossier.”
“Don’t make me dig my nails in,” I say, breath coming sharp. “I will.”
“There she is,” he murmurs. His hand gropes for something, finds my forearm, squeezes once. It leaves a streak of red on my skin. “You’re okay, Isabella. We’ve had worse.”
“You’ve had worse,” I correct. “I was a reporter with a coffee addiction three weeks ago. This is not in my skill set.”
“Adaptable,” he says. “That’s why he loves you.”
The words hit me in the middle of everything else, a strange, bright note in the dark.
The sirens start faint, somewhere in the distance, growing louder as they approach, a rising keen that scrapes over my nerves.
“Ambulance is close,” Marco says, eyes flicking over Rossi, then me. “You’re doing good. Don’t let up.”
“I’m not,” I say. My arms are starting to shake from the effort; every muscle in my back is burning. The smell of blood is everywhere, iron and salt and something that reminds me of pennies on my tongue.
Rossi’s skin is slick with sweat now, a sheen glistening along his hairline. His lips look paler than they did ten minutes ago.
“Talk to me,” I say, because I can hear the sirens but not fast enough, never fast enough. “Tell me something. Any story. Tell me about the first time you worked for Nico’s dad. Tell me about the stupidest thing Matteo ever did in a club. Tell me how this is not my fault.”
His mouth twitches. “You think you did this?”
“He told me to trust you,” I say, voice coming out in jerks. “He put you with me. We knew it was dangerous and I still insisted on leaving the building. If we’d stayed home, you wouldn’t be bleeding on this poor car.”
“Isabella.” His tone sharpens, a flash of the command I’m used to. “Look at me.”
I dig in harder with my hands and force myself to meet his eyes.
“This is not on you,” he says. “This is on them. The men who pulled the trigger. The ones who told them where to find us. The ones who decided you were a message instead of a person. Don’t you put this weight in your bag, too. You’re already carrying enough.”
Tears sting hotly. “You sound like my mother.”
“She’s a smart woman,” he says. His breath stutters. “You’ll listen to one of us, eventually.”
He closes his eyes for a heartbeat too long. “Hey,” I say sharply. “Don’t you dare.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” It’s softer now, but the steel is still there. “Just… resting.”
There’s a knock on the window by my head, a sharp staccato thud that nearly makes me jump out of my skin. Two paramedics appear in my peripheral vision, yellow jackets bright in the gray light. Marco is already out of the car, talking fast, waving them around.
The driver’s door wrenches open. Cold air slams into the warm, coppery cabin. The world widens suddenly—buildings, graffiti, a stray plastic bag caught on a fence.
“Ma’am, we’ve got him,” one of the medics says, voice calm but urgent. “Keep the pressure on until I tell you to let go.”
“I am keeping the pressure on,” I say, slightly hysterical. “I’m pressing like my life depends on it.”
“His does,” the other one says, sliding a board onto the seat. “You’re doing good. On three, we’re going to slide a dressing under your hands, then you move yours on top. Don’t freak out if it looks worse than it is.”
“How bad is it?” I ask, but they don’t answer, which is answer enough.
They move with practiced efficiency—gauze, bandage, an IV line snaked into his arm, oxygen mask settled over his face—and I try to stay out of the way without letting go. When they finally replace my hands with thick layers of white that turn pink almost immediately, I feel weirdly naked.
“Pulse is thready,” one mutters. “BP dropping. Let’s move.”
They haul him out on the board, loading him onto the stretcher with a series of smooth lifts.
He looks smaller lying flat, which is wrong; Rossi is one of the biggest men I know, a walking wall, and now he’s pale and still, the only color the smear of blood along his jaw and the red soaking the bandages.
“Can I come?” I ask, voice thin.
“Family?” the medic asks.
I hesitate. “No.”
“Then you meet us at the hospital,” he says. “We’ll take him from here.”
“He works for us,” Marco puts in. “His boss—”
“Your boss can meet us there,” the medic cuts in. There’s no rudeness, just a focus that says he has one job and one job only. “We’re losing time.”
They wheel Rossi toward the waiting ambulance. For a second, his eyes flutter open and find me.
I step forward, almost tripping over my own feet. “Rossi.”
He tries for a smile; it comes out crooked, pained. His fingers twitch against the rail and I catch them for half a second.
“See?” he rasps through the mask. “Told you. Just a scratch.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” I say, voice cracking.
“Good thing that’s not my job,” he says, and then the doors close between us.
The ambulance pulls away, siren wailing, red lights bouncing off brick.
The street feels too quiet in its wake.
I stand there for a moment, hands sticky, coat spattered, the cold finally catching up. My knees feel like they might fold.
Marco touches my elbow, firm but gentle. “We need to get you back,” he says. “Boss wants eyes on you, and we need to get that blood off you before someone freaks out.”
“Nico,” I say, and the name tastes like guilt.
He’s going to blame himself. Of course he is. He put Rossi with me. He let me leave. He’s been trying to close every door, and the bullet still found a crack.
But standing there, staring at the faint dark line on the SUV’s door where the round punched through the panel, all I can think is that I’m the common denominator.
The attacks, the rat, the shots today—it’s my name they’re circling, my face they used in the paper, my presence that turns every errand into a potential ambush.
“We have a mole,” I say, more to myself than to Marco.
He doesn’t answer, but his jaw flexes.
“They knew we were leaving,” I go on, brain racing ahead of the shock. “They knew the car, the route. It was too clean. Two blocks from the building, perfect line of sight, no traffic blocking them. That’s not random. Somebody with access is talking.”
“Boss will handle it,” Marco says. “You don’t have to worry about that part.”
“I’m already worrying about that part,” I snap, the edge in my own voice surprising me. “I can’t not worry about that part. It’s literally my job to worry about the patterns.”
He looks at me for a long second, then nods once. “Then help him worry smarter when we get upstairs. Come on, let’s get you back to the penthouse.”