I choke back a sob. Can’t let her see me lose it. “Yes, baby. You helped a lot.”
“He wasn’t a ghost. He was a man, playing a game, right?”
“That’s right. And we won.” I hope that’s not a lie.
TWENTY-FOUR
DARIO
Ed’s bodydrapes over the edges of my desk. He’s been in and out of consciousness in the past three minutes while I tied him down.
“What… what’s going on?”
“Are you with me, Ed?”
He blinks. The light is low. He’s been in my office before—I had to sew up a stab wound from a particularly wily client of his. When his glassy eyes trail to my face, they bulge. “Doc?—”
“You just remembered why you’re here, didn’t you?”
He blinks, then glances away. “Yeah.”
“Good. That means you can answer my questions, and you want to answer my questions, Ed. I promise you that.”
“I… I can’t. He’ll kill me.” No need to ask whoheis.
I sigh and smile over him. “Well, I’m killing you right now. So he won’t have the chance.”
Another blink. “What?”
“I imagine it will take a moment to register the fact that it’s not piss in your pants that you’re feeling.”
His brow lines as he concentrates. “It’s my arm that hurts—you fucking shot me?—”
“That wasn’t me. That was Lena. As are the cracked and bruised ribs. If I hadn’t stopped her, she would have fucking beat you to death. I stopped her for two reasons. One, I don’t know if she could live with herself if she killed a man. Even you. And two, I have questions. Since you’re losing quite a lot of blood every second?—”
“My arm fucking hurts, but I know it ain’t gonna kill me, doc. It ain’t my wrist.”
“Sadly, she only got your shoulder. I think it was the impact from when you slammed your head into the floor that knocked you silly. You’re right that it won’t be fatal.” I sigh. “But I nicked your femoral artery, and that will be fatal if I don’t patch you up. So, no need to worry about Marco killing you, because I’ve got that covered.”
He stares at me. “But you… You’re a doctor. You’re supposed to help?—”
I laugh. Hard. “You know who my family is. Do you really think I went to medical school just so I could help people?”
Now with the blinking again.
“You’re losing approximately sixty milliliters per minute. That sounds manageable and isn’t. At sustained flow, you have roughly twelve minutes before the deficit becomes the kind of problem that doesn’t resolve with sutures.” I pause. “Under normal circumstances, that is. But you have enough adrenalinecoursing through your veins that the bleeding is sped up. And you lost a fair amount of blood thanks to Lena’s shot. I’d estimate you’ve got two, maybe three minutes left, if you’re lucky.”
“Fucking hell, I didn’t even wanna do this!”
I look at him with the flat, clinical attention I give patients who require a clear picture of their situation. “I have everything needed to prevent that outcome. All you have to do is cooperate. Can you do that, asshole?”
To his credit, Ed doesn’t beg. I always said he was a serious man, and he’s proving me right. “It was Marco.”
“Tell me everything. Fast.”
It comes out in pieces—not from reluctance but from blood loss that makes it hard to organize his thoughts. “Marco ordered the hit.”
“Since when do shitty street men do hits?”
