Energy drains from my overused limbs. The loss of blood and expenditure of sexual tension has left me depleted. I’m growing weaker by the minute, which only serves to make me vulnerable, even in my own home.
Shane appears with a towel and worried creases around his earnest eyes when he witnesses red water flowing down my arm.
“Luciano’s inside now.” He watches me fumble with a bar of soap. “One of the guys recognized a shooter. A small-time cartel from the coast thought they’d seize the opportunity to catch us off guard. They’ll be dead by midnight.” He sighs. “Tommy…”
“Don’t fucking say it.” I know he’s about to tell me we shouldn't have gone into the city on a mindless whim, chasing after a woman of no consequence.
Rich red blood splashes around the onyx tiles underfoot, almost camouflaged, my uncovered gunshot wound still bleeding. I stifle a retch and suck in air through gritted teeth.
It’s my blood. Not Angelo’s. Not Papá’s. Mine.
“You know she didn't do it. So, why did you bring her back with you?”
I shrug, my heart rate slowing. “Why not?”
When I glare at him over my shoulder, his features blur temporarily. I press my hand to the wall to support my wobble.
Don’t show weakness.
Angelo’s imprinted sermon springs to the forefront of my mind. Shane understands my struggle, but the rest of the men in here don’t have a clue. And I won’t give them an opening to assume I’m a sitting duck.
“Does she know about Bianca?” he asks.
I almost laugh. “She doesn't need to know about my fiancé. I’m fucking the girl, not working on a relationship.” My reply burns his suggestion to ashes with the callous tone I hit him with. “It's a Russian Roulette situation. And I know when the next bullet is coming. She’ll be gone after the funeral,” I tell him, turning to face the pool.
He hands me a towel after the shower stops. I bury my face in Egyptian cotton, then press it over the seeping hole rather than hide my cock. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it before.
“You’ve lost a shit load of blood, mate. Are you feeling okay?” He eyes me closely. “You look half-dead.”
“I feel fucking dead. Nothing a bottle of Jack and a few stitches won’t sort out.”
My head rings with retribution and when I walk, it feels like I’m floating. Sometimes I wish I could turn my back on it all and leave the violence and bloodbaths behind. The pressure is overwhelming at times. Especially now I’m heading the entire operation. But this is what I do. It’s all I’ve ever known and now I have to live up to my uncle's high expectations—to become legendary.
“Where’s the girl now?” I ask, making a beeline for the liquor cabinet.
“She went upstairs.” Shane joins me. Without being asked, he unscrews the Scotch and fills two tumblers. He hands me one. “You’ll be out of action tonight, Tommy. I dunno if those motherfuckers know they shot you. I’m not taking any chances. I’ve arranged for a crew to man the compound tonight. And I’ll crash here again.” I nod, my head woozy. “You need to stop bleeding everywhere.”
I make it to the couch without my knees giving way, and sink like a rock. The breath leaves my lungs in a triumphant sigh, yet my body is tense and stressed.
Luciano appears out of nowhere. He slides round frames further up the bridge of his crooked nose and sets a leather medical bag on the coffee table. I gulp down the Scotch when he arches over me, eyes squinting. His bald head shines and aged fingers carefully assess the wound.
“The bullet is still in there, Tomás. I’ll have to fish it out. Do you need something stronger than booze?”
“No,” I hiss when he stops poking my screaming muscle. “Just get the fucker out and stop it bleeding all over the furniture. I’ll have to torch the couch at this rate.”
It all happens in a cloudy haze of stabbing pain and alcohol. Shane refills my glass. Luciano pulls on a pair of latex gloves and peels open a pair of sterile scissor-like tweezers. I drain the whiskey and let my head fall back when metal touches bone.
My fingers go numb. It’s a challenge to keep my eyelids open. I fight against the promise of sleep long enough to see the bullet leave from the same hole it entered.
“Get some rest.” Luciano pings off his bloodied gloves. “You’re not the first Souza I’ve patched up. And you won’t be the last. This is only the beginning, Tomás.”
11
CARINA
I hover on the landing long enough to watch an old man extract fragments of lethal steel from Tomás’ arm with a pair of surgical pincers.
It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Except, those patients I’d observed were medicated to the eyeballs. In Tomás’ sober state, he barely flinched. Zero response. No yells or pleading for the pain to stop. No ragged breathing. He just sat there sipping whiskey and then waited patiently for Shane to fill the glass again.