“I said don’t talk.”
“Carmen,” he mutters, and the sound of her name is like a dagger to my chest.
“I know,” I choke out, my throat burning with unshed tears. “I know.”
The image of her face flashes in my mind—those wide, betrayed eyes, the way her voice broke as she called me a traitor. My hands tighten on the wheel as I fight the urge to scream.
“I ruined everything,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“It wasn’t your fault. It was me. I gave you away.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat. Now isn’t the time. “Shush now, okay? We can talk about it when you don’t have a knife in your gut.”
“Please…” Leon’s voice is terribly faint. I fly through a red light.
“Shush, Leon. Please.”
“Stay with me.”
The tears spill over.
“Yes. Yes. Anything.”
18
LEON
The drive to the city outskirts is a blur, pain radiating from the knife wound in my side with every bump in the road.
Mia sits stiff beside me, her knuckles white as she grips the steering wheel. She barely speaks, her focus sharp, but I catch the way she glances at me every few seconds, her worry etched across her face.
It takes me a moment to realize where we are when we pull to a stop. Mia is moving the second she cuts the ignition, and the older man runs to her aid in an instant.
“You’re lucky she got you here when she did,” Marco mutters as he presses gauze to the deep gash in my abdomen. “Another inch and that blade would’ve punctured something vital.”
Lucky. I bite back a bitter laugh.
Mia hasn’t left the room, not even when Marco snapped at her to stay out of his way. She stood back, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on me the entire time like her focus alone could keep me alive.
When Marco finally stitches me up and straps a makeshift dressing over my side, he turns to her. “He’s stable for now, but this isn’t a hospital. He needs rest, clean bandages, and someone to keep him from tearing those stitches.”
She nods sharply, already moving to help me sit up. I don’t miss the way her hand recoils when Marco reaches for her.
“Mia,” he says her name like a plea.
“Thank you for saving him,” her voice is cool. “I’ll take it from here.”
The man looks desperately at his daughter for a moment longer before sagging into his chair with his head between his hands.
“Come on,” she whispers as she helps me up. Neither of us looks back at the older man as we leave.
The ride back to the brownstone is substantially slower than the last. My body feels like lead, exhaustion dragging me under. Mia says nothing, but I can feel the tension rolling off her, thick and suffocating.
When she pulls up in front of the house, she’s out of the car before I can even open the door.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she says, her voice brisk as she slings my arm over her shoulder and helps me up the steps.
Stairs, as it would turn out, are not a good combination with new stitches, but eventually, I manage to make it to my room, grunting in relief as I lie back on the pillows and close my eyes.
