"What?" He scowls up at me from his slouched position.
"Sit up, so I can check the damage," I explain as I nudge my shoulder under his uninjured arm and heave. He sits up, then sways again. "Shit!" I manage to take some of his weight. I push down the sleeves of his shirt and manage to peel it off, so I can take a closer look at the wound on the shoulder… It’s deep, but hopefully, it’s not so deep that I can’t stitch it. The bullet only grazed the flesh. The breath I wasn’t aware I’m holding whooshes out. "Where’s the first aid kit?" I demand.
"In the cabinet in the bathroom," he says in a low voice. His features have definitely gone even more pale in the last few minutes. Shit!
I change direction, race to the bathroom, and rummage around in the cabinet. "There!" I grab the kit, and race back to him, open the kit, and scowl. "There’s nothing here that I can sew you with."
He glances at the sewing kit, then back at me.
"Oh, no. I’m not using that to stitch you up."
"Poetic justice, don‘t you think?" His lips curl. "Thought you’d like the opportunity to stick a needle into me."
I draw in a breath, then release him before I walk back to the bathroom and grab all the clean towels I can find. Next, I go to the kitchen, boil the kettle, and carry it and a bowl to the living room. I help him out of the remnants of his shirt, then grab the bottle of whiskey from the bar.
"You ready?"
He holds out his hand, I place the bottle of whiskey in it, and he swigs from it before handing it back to me. I pour the whiskey over the wound, and he winces. Once I’m sure that the wound is reasonably clear, I clean it with the quickly-cooling water from the kettle. I drop the blood-sodden towels into the bowl, then walk over to the side table to survey the sewing kit. Thankfully, the kit is fancy enough that I can find a curved needle and silk thread to run through the eye of the needle.
"This is going to hurt."
"I have a feeling that you’ve already hurt me much more than the damage you can inflict on me with a needle."
I stiffen. "It’s … it’s not what it seems, Christian."
"Then what is it? Explain it to me, Aurora, because from where I am, it doesn’t look very good for you."
Of course, I know that. And of course, I know what it looks like. But if I tell him the truth behind why I was speaking to the man, that I knew him, had arranged to meet him, had agreed to give up the secrets of the Sovranos to him… Then, not only will he no longer be interested in marrying me, he’ll kill me and my family right away. The needle almost slips from my sweaty fingers. "Cazzo," I swear aloud as I tighten my grip on it at the last minute. "I need to sterilize this, at least."
I thread the needle before I head to the bar and grab a bottle of vodka—it’s a clearer spirit than whiskey, so hopefully, it should sterilize it. I pour some of the vodka into a glass, then drop the needle and thread in it. I pull on a pair of gloves from the first-aid kit, then fish out the needle and thread before returning to him.
"This is all wrong. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m a doctor, not a … a … savage. What if the wound gets infected?"
"I know you won’t let that happen," his voice is slurred.
I glance at his face and find the shadows under his eyes are more pronounced. His features are gaunt, and when I glance down at his shoulder, I find the blood is running down his arm to pool at his feet.
"Maledizione!" I snatch up another towel, press it to this shoulder, and hold it there for a few minutes until the blood oozing out seems to slow somewhat. I throw the sodden cloth aside, then once more, clean the wound with the warm water.
I hand him two of the painkillers I find in the first aid kit. Before I can get him a glass of water, he swallows them dry.
"Go on." He jerks his chin toward his chest.
I hesitate only for a second, then begin to stitch him up.
For a few seconds, there’s silence, then, "You swear in Italian when you’re upset, you know that?"
"What?" I frown, trying to focus on pushing the needle through the gaping lips of the wound.
"You swear in Italian when you’re under emotional stress."
"It happens," I mutter.
"And you get these cute wrinkles between your eyebrows when you are focused on something."
"Mmm-hmm."
"And your scent… You always smell of honeysuckle and crushed rose petals."