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I watched as his chest rose and fell and his eyes honed in on me like trackers.
I saw blood pouring from his biceps, hitting the floor below.
What the hell happened?
Part of me was afraid of him, but I was also worried about the blood spilling from his arm. It was unsettling.
He stormed toward me, his wounded arm leaving a trail of crimson droplets in his wake. My eyes didn’t leave the wound, and a wave of empathy washed over me. Why? I had no clue.
The dude kidnapped me and locked me in a room for days! And yet, I gave a shit if he had a wound on his arm?
Without warning, he heatedly flung a pile of clothes at me. “Here!” he yelled. “Change into these!”
I looked down at the scattered fabrics along the top of the bed where I sat and realized something.
They were mine.
He winced and grabbed hold of his hurt arm before turning to head out the door. “Wait!” I called out.
In that fleeting moment, our roles shifted.
He became not just my captor, but someone wounded.
A victim.
It was strange and unsettling, and it evoked emotions within me that I didn’t think I could have for someone like this. But so did the fact that he went and got me clothes.
I was confused, but more than anything, I knew one thing: I couldn’t be like him or the rest of the mobsters I knew.
I couldn’t be a monster.
I had to keep my humanity intact.
I had to do what was right.
I had to help him.
When he turned his head, he was still furious. This must have happened when he got my clothes.
I spoke cautiously, my voice almost trembling, "Luca, please. Sit down.”
Reluctantly, he sank beside me, his eyes never leaving me.
“Don’t try anything stupid.” he hissed. “I’ll fucking kill you. Don’t tempt me.”
I believed him.
I mustered my courage and pointed to his wound. "You're bleeding all over the floor. It's grossing me out." It was a simple truth, but I hoped it would lighten the moment a little, too. "Before I became a cop, I was an EMT. I know a thing or two about taking care of injuries." My voice held a touch of authority, hoping to appeal to his sense of self-preservation. All mobsters had that.
Taking the glass of water I had on the dresser, I poured it onto one of the dry shirts he’d just thrown at me, saturating it.
Carefully, I approached him and pressed the makeshift compress firmly against his wound, hoping to stop the bleeding.
27
LUCA
I wincedas the pain in my arm pulsed with each beat of my heart. She had broken her silence and spoken more words to me than she had in days. There was a care in her tone — and in her actions.
