Cole got up from his seat.
“You heard her; she said to stop calling her that,” Cole said, very upset.
Moretti shrugged.
“I don’t know why you’re getting all hot under the collar. You’re the one who married a lady of the night.”
Cole was infuriated by Moretti’s comment and lunged at him.
Next thing I know, they’re on the ground fighting, and I’m screaming for them to stop.
“Stop this! Now! You’re acting like children!”
Bang!
That sound echoed throughout the club.
Moretti’s driver came in from the outside and rushed to Moretti, who was bleeding and lying on the floor.
Cole stood up. His shirt was stained with blood.
“It was his gun,” Cole said nervously. “It just went off. It wasn’t my fault. He was going to shoot me or you.”
The driver was talking to Moretti, trying to decide what to do.
“We need to take him to the hospital,” I interjected. “Stop arguing like chickens in a coop. You’re acting as if you’ve never seen someone get shot,” I said firmly.
“Well, I never actually have,” he admitted. “The gun that was pulled on you had no bullets. I don’t like firearms. Playing with loaded guns is dangerous. My mom taught me that.”
Unbelievable. It’s so hard to get good help these days.
“No hospitals,” Moretti whispered.
I knelt next to him.
“Listen, Moretti. It’s either the hospital or your friend, the butcher down the street. And I don’t think he’ll help you out since you ordered a beating on him a few years ago for not paying back the small loan he owed you.”
“Fine. The hospital it is,” Moretti managed to say.
Cole was freaking out. The driver was confused, and I had to get this resolved one way or the other.
This is bad; this is really bad.
CHAPTER 9
COLE
“What are you doing waiting around? Call 9-1-1,” Clarissa snapped.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I replied.
She’s so bossy. Now I remember why I divorced her.
My phone rang before I could dial 9-1-1. It was Michael.
“Dad, where are you? I’ve been waiting for you. It’s 8:12 p.m. We have a sound check at 9:00 p.m. like we always do, and you need to be the MC.”
“Hey, you, driver, call 9-1-1 and get a cushion from one of the booths to put under Mr. Moretti’s head. And don’t forget to apply pressure to the wound,” I instructed.
