Page 129 of The Cost of Silence

“Shit,” I whisper.

“Language,” he says faintly, which is so like him it almost breaks me.

He leans the seat back a little with his free hand, giving me better access. “Heel of your hand,” he directs. “Right there. Press in, then up.”

“Up?” My voice cracks. “What if I make it worse?”

He turns his head just enough that our eyes meet. His eyes are dark, still clear, but I can see the pain running under the surface like a current.

“You’ll keep me alive,” he says. “I trust you. Now do it.”

My hands are shaking, but I do as he says, plucking his bloody fingers away and replacing them with my own.

The heat of the wound is shocking. The fabric is slick, and when I dig in, I feel the give of muscle, the hard ridge of bone, and something softer beneath that makes my vision blur for a second.

He grunts, breath hissing out between his teeth.

“Sorry,” I choke.

“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.