Chapter 16 Simone
SIXTEEN
Simone
I’m almost buckling under Ronan’s weight as I help him through the laundromat doors. His arm is slung over my shoulder, his body pressing into mine with each labored step we take.
The laundromat itself is dark and eerie as we move past rows of washing machines and dryers and head toward the back like Ronan’s directed.
In the light of day, it’s your standard run-of-the-mill laundromat where customers come by to wash their clothes.
There’s a machine for breaking dollars into change and hard plastic chairs in mismatched colors lined against the front window.
The entire space smells like detergent and fabric softener with a slight staleness in the air.
But considering the situation, everything about the business feels as threatening and unsafe as what just happened to us on the promenade outside.
I had wanted to call 911 immediately after the assassin rode through and shot at us.
Ronan insisted otherwise, demanding through clenched teeth that I take him a block over to the laundromat his family owns. Apparently, it’s one of a chain of laundromats scattered throughout the city.
Just another business the Callahans operate under the guise of legality.
We make it to the back of the laundromat with Ronan directing me to the door on the left. I’m still so shellshocked from what happened on the street that I obey without question.
Minutes ago, somebody tried to kill us. We were walking and chatting, for once things going well between us, and then the motorcycle appeared out of nowhere.
I hadn’t even registered what was happening when Ronan rammed his shoulder into me and shoved me to the ground.
My once pristine dinner dress is ruined. Blood smears across the expensive fabric, soaking into the wool of my peacoat, staining my hands.
I’m not a blood person. It makes me squirm uncomfortably and even gag in large amounts. Yet I’m forced to swallow down any nausea as I help Ronan up a narrow staircase to the second floor.
He’s been shot, and his blood is leaking everywhere. He’s barely able to stand.
“We should call 911,” I say again, my voice pitching higher than usual. “Ronan, you need a hospital—”
“No cops. No officials. Just... get me upstairs. There’s an apartment on the second floor. Use the brass key with the number six on it.”
I bite my tongue as we stagger the rest of the way up the stairs. The hallway on the second floor is about as narrow as the staircase was, the two of us lurching forward. When we reach the door to the apartment he’s mentioned, I fumble with the knob to get it unlocked.
The apartment is drab and nothing special. Dust coats every surface, from the sagging couch and small kitchen table to the countertops that haven’t seen a sponge in months.
Clearly nobody lives here. It’s just a safe house, a place to disappear when things go wrong.
…and things have definitely gone wrong tonight.
Ronan collapses onto the couch with a groan of pain, his head falling back, eyes closed. His entire suit jacket is damp from blood, and sweat drips from his face. I’m slicked in blood and sweat too, though I know I can’t rest now.
I’m moving before I can think, darting into the tiny bathroom to grab whatever towels I can find.
They’re thin and scratchy, probably haven’t been washed in ages, but they’re better than nothing.
Rushing back to him, I slide onto the couch, prop myself up on my knees, and start ripping at his shirt.
The blood-soaked fabric slips away from his shoulder and reveals the bullet wound.
My hands freeze, heart thundering even faster.
My father is a weapons dealer. He’s cut multimillion-dollar deals with our country as well as others across the world. He also conducts under-the-table business in the black market for similar amounts.
He’s armed the United States military as well as small militias across the globe. Half of the organized crime syndicates in New York City are his faithful customers.
I was his faithful Public Relations Director, ensuring Langston Defense Solutions remained well-regarded in the public eye.
Yet despite my family’s business and my career working for them, I’ve never seen a gunshot wound before.
I’ve never dealt with blood gushing from the puncture mark or been in the thick of this level of violence.
Dad ensured I’d never have to be; I was always protected and shielded from this ugly side of our family’s trade.
Ronan’s mockingly called me princess because of it, and for the first time, my stomach churns at the realization he’s right.
I am a princess, and this is way above my pay grade. I don’t know how to handle somebody who’s just been shot. The blood is thick and dark crimson and pulsing from the deep hole in his shoulder.
There’s another wound on his thigh, which has hindered him from walking like normal.
He needs a real doctor. Some medically trained professional. Not some sheltered princess whose stomach heaves at the sight of blood and gore.
I have to clamp my mouth shut to keep from throwing up all over him.
“Simone,” he chokes out, “you need to focus.”
“I’m… I’m trying,” I whisper, hands shaking. They’re stained with his blood—so, so much blood—and my mind goes blank every time I think about what to do next. “Ro-Ronan, please. Let me call 911. You need real help—”
“No,” he snaps. He reaches up with his good arm and grabs my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong despite his wounds. “Grab my phone. Text Killian what’s happened. Then call the contact listed as Hino.”
I blink at him, uncomprehending at first, then realize there’s no other choice but to go with it. I find his phone in his suit jacket pocket and scroll through his contacts until I find the names. First I fire off the text to Killian, then I dial Hino.
My fingers are trembling so badly I almost drop the phone twice before I manage to press call.
It rings three times before a man answers. His voice is calm and measured, with a distinct Japanese accent.
“Yes?”
“I… I…” I swallow hard, working through the panic and brain fog. “Ronan has an emergency situation he needs you to handle.”
I rattle off the address, barely aware of what I’m even saying. The man on the other end doesn’t sound surprised or concerned. He simply replies, “Twenty minutes,” and hangs up.
I lower the phone, staring at it like it might have answers. “Who was that?”
“My private physician. He’ll patch me up.”
Ronan’s squeezed shut his eyes again, breathing raggedly through the pain that must be consuming him.
It’s as if he refuses to give any other real signs he’s suffering. He simply grinds down on his jaw and bears it.
So I push down the nausea and squeamishness and do what I can to try to make it better for him.
I press the towel harder against his shoulder, wincing every time he hisses in pain, and wipe away some of the blood with a second towel. My hands are slick with it, warm and metallic smelling, but I guess if there’s anyone’s blood I should be willing to have on me, it would be my husband’s.
The vows we took—however forced or arranged this marriage is—were for life or death.
“What happened back there?” I ask, desperate to fill the silence between us. “Who was shooting at us?”
Ronan can’t bring himself to answer right away. His jaw works, muscles tensing under his sickly pale complexion. “Not sure. Not yet.”
“But you have suspicions?”
A bitter smile twists his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’ve always got suspicions.”
I let the question go, focusing on wiping clean more of the blood from his shoulder and doing my best to keep from studying the wound itself.
It’s as I work that a strange realization settles over me.
I don’t want Ronan to die. I’m deeply worried for him and care that he’s hurt right now.
It’s true that I hate his guts. I resent every moment of this arranged marriage between us. Every mocking word and arrogant, insufferable smirk.
But I don’t want him dead. Not even a little bit, regardless of the business card Chantal gave me for so-called desperate situations.
Ronan pushed me down. When those bullets started flying, he threw himself on top of me without hesitation. If he hadn’t done that...
I don’t want to think about what would’ve happened if he hadn’t protected me like he did.
Twenty minutes crawl by, the silence in the small apartment disrupted by a single sharp knock at the door.
I jump like a startled cat, then get up to answer.
“Check the peephole first,” Ronan grunts. “Could be anybody out there.”
I pad across the dusty floor and press my eye to the small glass circle.
A man stands on the other side—small and solemn, wearing a fedora hat and large glasses that make him look like he’s straight out of a noir film.
He carries a worn leather doctor’s bag in one hand, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
“It’s a small man,” I describe. “Asian, dark hair and big glasses. He’s wearing a fedora.”
“Hino,” Ronan says with a nod of confirmation.
Dr. Hino strides through the moment I unlock the door. He doesn’t acknowledge me at all, crossing the room straight to where Ronan’s collapsed on the couch.
Setting his doctor’s bag on the coffee table, he quickly sets to work.
No preamble or questions about what happened.
He simply observes the gunshot wounds on Ronan’s shoulder and thigh and then launches into treating them.
I step back and watch from the sidelines, my arms wrapped around myself, as he extracts surgical tools from his bag.
Ronan grits his teeth as the doctor removes the bullet from his shoulder then eventually moves onto his thigh.
My husband might keep the real pain bottled up inside, but I can tell by how the muscle bounces in his jaw and his fist balls that it’s extremely painful.
At least half an hour passes. Possibly more.
I lose track of time, standing on the sidelines as a private physician patches up my husband.