The room clears out fast, baby carriers and all.
I don't leave, and neither does Teresa.
Papà lingers by the door for a second longer than the others, his gaze passing from me to Adrian, then back again.
“The doctor is ten minutes out,” he says.
Then he is gone, pulling the heavy doors shut behind him.
Elena puts the supplies on the coffee table with a soft thud.
“All right,” she says, her tone brisk but not unkind. “Off with the shirt.”
Adrian doesn’t hesitate. He reaches down and starts to unbutton it with one hand, the other still braced over the wound. The buttons are small and stiff, and with only one hand, it’s awkward.
Teresa and I exchange a look, and without a word, I sit next to him.
"It's fine, I—" he starts.
I bat his hands away gently and start on the buttons myself. My fingers are shaking, but I force them to be steady.
His skin is warm under my touch. Too warm.
He lets me work without protest.
I slip the shirt carefully over his shoulders, trying not to jostle him more than I have to. Teresa helps peel the fabric away from the sticky, blood-soaked bandage.
And then I see not just the bandage, but the wound beneath.
Back in the conference room, I had to be quick putting on the bandage, and there was a lot of blood I wasn't able to clean off him. So I'm seeing the wound clearly for the first time.
And I think I'm going to be sick.
The entry is small, almost neat. But the skin around it is already starting to bruise, an angry purple against the pallor of his skin.
Elena hands me a pair of scissors. “Cut the dressing away. Slowly.”
I do. The gauze pulls at the wound, and Adrian’s jaw tightens, but he doesn't make a sound.
The exit wound is less neat. A ragged tear in the muscle of his back. Swollen and weeping blood.
“Oh my God,” Teresa breathes.
Elena doesn't waste any time. She takes a clean cloth, soaks it in antiseptic, and starts cleaning the wound.
Adrian sucks in a sharp breath. His body goes rigid. His hand, which was resting on his knee, balls into a fist.
“Sorry,” Elena murmurs. "We just wanna keep this clean until the doctor gets here."
"Dr. Alfonsi?" I ask, referring to the doctor my father has known for over fifty years.
"I trust him," she says, cleaning around the exit wound. "Especially after our issues with Dr. Bianchi."
My jaw tightens at the thought of the OB-GYN who sold out Antonio and Elsa to a crime syndicate from Chicago when they went in for a checkup during her pregnancy.
Yes, better to have a trusted family doctor, even a retired one.
“He needs a hospital,” Teresa says, her voice strained. She is standing on the other side of him, her arms crossed so tightly her knuckles are white.
