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All right, that was it.
With the light above me and my captor-turned-assistant clearing the field for me, I administered the anesthetic and examined the path of each bullet, tracing it through the layers of tissue and muscle. The impact had caused considerable internal bleeding, but I didn’t think any vital organs had been damaged.
Using a scalpel and forceps—the only ones available in the medical kit—I made precise incisions to access the bullet fragments embedded in the abdomen. The metallic glint of the foreign objects contrasted starkly with the vivid crimson of the blood-soaked tissue. Gently maneuvering the forceps, I extracted each bullet fragment, being cautious not to cause any further damage.
The world around me had disappeared and time blurred, my focus consumed by the intricate dance between life and death. My back ached from the awkward, bent position, but even that pain was something distant, like it throbbed from behind a semi-translucent curtain.
As I worked, I sutured the damaged blood vessels and tissues, meticulously repairing the internal structures that had been torn apart.
All the while, my amber-eyed captor’s hands were there, sopping up blood, clearing my site each time before I could ask him. It seemed as if he possessed an instinctive understanding of when I required assistance, surpassing the capabilities of most nurses I had encountered. Some detached portion of my mind couldn’t help but wonder how he accomplished such a feat.
Once the bullets had been removed, I ensured there was no active bleeding, meticulously tying off any remaining vessels. I applied sterile dressings and bandages to protect the wounds, then sat back on my heels.
The world around me came back into focus. As it did, I rather wished it hadn’t.
The men surrounding me had their gazes fixed upon my patient, their expressions reflecting a blend of concern and sadness, as if they genuinely cared about the wounded man. I wasn’t sure what to think of that. Individuals like my captor, hardened criminals, were devoid of empathy, resembling monstrous beings more than humans. It was a clear-cut, undeniable truth that I had experienced firsthand.
I looked away and focused on checking my patient’s vitals, envisioning the flow of his blood through arteries, then arterioles, then capillaries, then its long return to his heart through venules and veins.
“How are you feeling?” I asked him stiffly.
“Like I’ve been shot,signorina,” he said with a weak smile.
“That could be because youhavebeen shot,” I said, but stopped the rant that was bubbling its way up my throat. “Your wounds are serious, but now, not fatally so,” I finished instead.
I looked up at my captor as he stood up across from me and tossed his gloves onto the bloodstained rug.
“He’ll need—” I began, but he turned away from me.
“Get a car ready for Aurelio, Bruno,” he told one of his men, a tall, wiry man with a blond buzzcut and a scar that cut across his face from his right temple to the left side of his jaw.
When my captor turned to look at me again, his eyes were snapping and the muscles in his jaw twitched.
“Take off your shoes,” he said. The look on his face said his voice probably sounded like pure ice.
I should have been cowering; the logical part of my brain knew it.
“No,” I snapped back. Not that I had any particular fondness for my shoes, but I bloody well wasn’t handing them over to this churlish sod. “I just saved your man’s life—"
“Si,you did,” he interjected. “But you’re also the one who put his life in jeopardy. Now, give me your shoes. I won’t ask again.”
I glanced around, but if I’d been hoping for any assistance from the men here, I was a sorely mistaken fool.
I stood up and yanked off my shoes, wishing I was the kind of woman who wore stilettos on a day-to-day basis. They would have made much better weapons than my sensible, comfortable pumps with modest wedge heels.
“Coldhearted tosser with a bloody shoe fetish,” I muttered as I chucked them at my captor.
He caught them in mid-air with lightning speed, snatching away any satisfaction I would have gleaned from the impact.
“Take her to her room,” he said to the big, bald man.
I almost fought. Almost. But an image of the window by the bed sprung to mind. If the big, bald man didn’t cuff me to the bloody bed, then escape was right there, ripe for the taking.
I glared at my captor and took a step back—if I didn’t put up at least a nominal struggle, he’d know something was amiss.
“I’m not in the mood to argue with you, Heidi. Go,” he demanded.
There was no humor dancing in the recesses of his eyes. It had been there, I realized, from the very first moment I saw him in Elio’s apartment. I hadn’t realized it because it had been ever-present. It was gone now, though. In its place was an imminent warning, one even the Ice Queen had the good sense not to ignore.
