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A stray piece of shrapnel sticks out of her bloody stomach.
30. salvatore
A moment passeswhere all I can do is stare. It’s a question of reality. If I’m seeing what I’m seeing. It doesn’t compute in my head. It doesn’t…make sense.
“Phi,” I croak. The sound is feeble and unlike my own voice, a weak cough from my lungs.
I reach for her in the same moment she can’t stand anymore. As her legs buckle, my arms wrap around her to catch her. We sink to the floor together. She slides into my lap, her glassy eyes stuck on my face, the rest of her soaked in blood.
So much blood.
Blood has always been my language. Violence, blood, death, chaos. I’ve bathed in my enemies’ blood and relished in the warm, red liquid oozing onto the floor. I’ve grinned when in fights so gruesome and barbaric, blood was like a trophy. A badge of honor to wear my opponent’s blood splattered all over me.
But this blood—Delphine’sblood soaking through the fabric of her clothes, spreading everywhere, so fast and out-of-control—leaves me in pure, paralyzed horror.
An emotion I’ve never known.
It pierces my heart, my lungs, making it harder to breathe. I blink and realize I have tears in my eyes. I blink again, feeling dizzy, though I try to force myself to think.
Do something! FUCKING DO SOMETHING!
In my dazed panic, I assess her wounds. The piece of shrapnel is lodged into the left side of her stomach, poking out like it’d struck her by surprise. The powerful blast had sent chunks of plaster and glass flying everywhere. Being upstairs where it originated, she must’ve been caught in a storm of errant debris.
For half a second, I consider attempting to pull it out of her. The possibility I could do more damage and make it worse stops me. I have experience with injuries after a lifetime of sustaining many and inflicting even more, but I’m no medical expert on ones this severe.
She needs emergency treatment. I need to get her out of here right now.
“Phi, stay awake,” I say, trying and failing to keep my voice leveled. “Hang on. I’m getting you out of here.”
I’m not in peak condition myself after the blast, fairly certain I have an injury or two myself. But I scoop my arms under her and push through any protests from my body. I break out into a bobbling run for the staircase.
The sight must be a complete wreck—me, sweaty and panicked, carrying a bloody, half-unconscious Delphine, fumbling to hold onto my gun in case I need it.
We make it to the ground floor. The scene resembles the aftermath of a war zone. Smoke and dust float in the air and the walls of the theater lobby have been stripped bare. The very foundation of the archaic building feels like it’s wilting.
A couple stragglers litter the floor. Two of them Belini’s men, too injured and disoriented to do anything but writhe and groan in pain. The other Fabio, who has regained consciousness and crawls toward the exit, a trail of blood showing his progress.
The revolving glass door’s shattered in on itself, leaving a gaping hole that leads onto the street. I rush myself and Delphine through. The summer breeze hasn’t cooled off even in the night. It’s warm and humid against our clammy skin.
I don’t stop until we’re several buildings away, where I find a small patch of vacant concrete, then collapse to the ground with her still cradled in my arms.
She’s still awake, still looking up at me as if she’s in another timeline completely.
“Phi, stick with me,” I beg, laying her down gently. I’m careful not to shift her too much out of fear I’ll cause the shrapnel to sink deeper.
My hands are anything but steady, one still holding the gun. The other I use to scramble for my phone. The second the 911 operator answers, I’m shouting at her to send help. Rattling off the address and demanding she get someone here immediately.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to calm down,” says the operator. Her tone is professional and emotionless, the kind of tapered reaction that pisses me the fuck off right now. “Take a deep breath and remain where you are. Emergency services have been called. They are already enroute.”
It figures. On the street outside the crumbling cinema, bystanders have begun to gather. Traffic has stopped and the buzz of human curiosity grows. Everybody wants to know what shocking and horrific event is unfolding before their eyes.
I ignore them all. I clench the phone tighter in my grip and growl at the operator.
“I don’t give a fuck if they’ve been called. It shouldn’t fucking take this long!”
“Sir, standard response time is anywhere between five and fifteen minutes. It’s been seven since they were dispatched. Please ensure you keep the victim away from the blast area. It is advised that you do not attempt to remove the impaled object. Emergency responders will be arriving any mo—”
I hang up on her. I divert my attention, focus all my energy, onto Delphine.
