I actively fight the thoughts, battling against them in an effort to keep my head straight. I focus on Ciro moving around the bathroom, pulling out a first aid kit from one of the drawers and walking back to me, thighs resting hesitantly between my legs.
“I just have to…”
“It’s fine.” I open my legs a little, giving him room to work.
He stands close as he examines my body, making note of the places where blood has dried and where it’s still dripping down my arms. I’m lucky that the few scrapes I received during the scuffle of getting away from Brian are all I have as markers of what happened, not something worse.
Like a bullet in my chest.
“I’ll get you some ice for your shoulder when we’re done,” Ciro says absently.
My focus snaps back to him. “How did you… know?”
“How else could you have gotten out?” he muses, touching the place between my shoulder and neck lightly. The pain has dulled to a low, steady throb.
His eyes are absent, as if he’s recalling the same memory I have of when I broke it, and I have the sudden urge to bury my face in his neck and pull him tight, letting his body protect me from everything.
I know that he can’t actually protect me, not when he has others to answer to, but having him for just a few moments would at least help distract me from the spray of bullets that are my thoughts.
Everything is so fucking complicated.
“Could you…” He gestures toward my shirt. “I need to check on your stitches. It looks like you tore them.”
Sure enough, when I glance down at my shirt, there’s a dark stain of blood where my still healing gunshot wounds are. I barely even thought about it during the fight, but now the area pulsates with a heavy ache—not to mention the other cuts and bruises on my body.
I lift up my shirt for him, and he examines the wound before applying a disinfectant that stings like a bitch, making me hiss in pain.
He flinches. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
He applies gentle pressure to the area, focused on his task.
Not on me.
Never on me.
Just get through this now, I tell myself, ignoring the aching stab of loneliness and confusion. And deal with the rest later.
“What… happened?” I’m not sure I even want to know. “How did you find me?”
“Brian wasn’t a good guy.”
As if I hadn’t already figured that out.
“He was a dirty cop, then…” I say.
“To say the least.” He avoids my gaze, focusing on applying a new bandage to my side.
I narrow my eyes. “What aren’t you telling me, Ciro?”
“We think he might be the one who sold you out.” He rips a bandage, hard, hands trembling. He’s angry—not angry at me, angry for me. “Either he was working directly with the other group, whoever the fuck they are, or he told them where to find you and your dad.”
Of course.
Of course he was lying to me too—just like my dad. If everyone I trusted most turned out to be dirty, to be lying and withholding things from me, who can I trust in my life? Is there anyone left that I can turn to?
Ciro’s eyes are level with mine, and I look at the hard line of his brow, the way it softens at his eyebrows and melts into steel-gray eyes. Then my gaze drifts lower, to where his lips are pursed into a thin line.