Page 139 of The Billionaire Who Saved My Cat From The Mafia

Niko pushes me away and prepares to pull the trigger.

I leap up, twisting to face Niko.A shot rings out and I’m falling.A knife flies over my head and slices directly into Niko’s chest.His eyes widen in shock, and he reaches up to grab the knife handle protruding from his body.

I hit the floor just as Niko does.He’s dead.

I’m pretty sure I am, too.

I’m numb.A hot rush of calm settles over me.I didn’t think dying would feel like this.

“Medivac,” a voice says.I think it’s Special K.“Get a Level 1 trauma surgeon to Sweetbriar Regional.Gunshot wound to the abdomen.Call the ER.Now.”

“Roger.”That sounds like Declan, but I can barely hear.

“Lights on,” the voice that might be Special K says.No.It’s definitely Special K.

“Roger.”Who said that?Finn?Evander?Cal?

“Bring the IFAK,” Special K barks.

The lights flash on, and I have to squeeze my eyes against the glare.But I find they’re already closed.

“Oh, fuck.”

That doesn’t sound good.

I hear a loud clatter and then feel Special K’s hands on me, rolling me onto my back.I feel a heavy pressure on my belly.

“What’s happening?”I croak.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Boots.Why did you do that?”

“For you.Save you.”

“Do notleave me again, Frankie.Do not fucking leave me, do you hear what I’m saying?”

I’m shocked at how sad he sounds.Have I made him sad again?Is he crying—why?I didn’t mean to make him cry!I have to tell him that I’ll never leave him.Not if he wants me to stay.

If he wants me—if it’s possible for a man like him to want a woman like me—then I’ll be his forever.

But I don’t say that.Because I can’t say anything.

I’ve run out of energy.

I manage to open one eye just a crack.I see him.His blond curls are wild, his face is twisted up and tears are rolling down his cheeks as he presses both his hands onto my belly.

Something’s wrong with my belly.

I love you, cowboy, I say, but not with words.Just a thought.

My last.

CHAPTER 70

Special K

“Here.Change your shirt, little brother.”Evander holds one of his bespoke button-down dress shirts in front of me.He keeps a whole stack of them in the back of his SUV.

I don’t respond.I don’t accept the shirt.I just keep staring at the swinging doors that lead to a long, sterile-white hospital hallway and the operating rooms beyond.