AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I probably should be pleased about that, but to my surprise, I’m not. I don’t want hot gangster to be arrested. Not after he saved me from…what exactly? Possibly death by bullet. Or worse. I’m not 100% certain, but at least my shift at the restaurant from hell ended early.
Silver linings and all that jazz.
Amazingly, the elevator works. It stinks of piss and weed but I don’t care. I just want to drop this 200-pound lump of muscle onto the sofa before my back gives out. If he survives the night, I’m charging him for a chiropractor visit.
“Honey, we’re home,” I announce as we walk through the door. His eyes snap open and he groans. We edge back to my lumpy sofa and he slumps like a sack of rocks. Frankly, I’m a bit worried about his health. He looks like shit. His complexion is deathly pale with a light sheen of sweat and his eyes are glassy with pain.
“You really need to see a doctor.” I know he doesn’t want that but I also don’t want him to die on my watch. He’s much too pretty to drop dead, plus it would create a bit of a problem for me. He probably has experience disposing of dead bodies, but I don’t.
“You need to bandage my arm, he says before his eyes flutter shut.” I frown. Do I have a First Aid kit?
I try and pull his jacket off but it’s stiff with blood and he’s not exactly cooperative. All he does is groan and mutter at me. In the end, I give up and grab some scissors. It feels sacrilegious to destroy his expensive suit, but eh. Not my problem.
The man has muscles to die for. Every inch of his chest and bulging arm is covered in ink, so I take a minute to admire the swirling patterns and complex designs. He must have spent days in the tattooist’s chair to have this amount of work done. Then he stirs and mumbles a bit and I pull myself together. I can’t afford to lose my shit. This man is dangerous, I remind myself. He literally shot a guy in front of me. I should be scared, terrified, yet here I am ogling him like he’s the most divine chocolate bar in the entire world.
Yeah, I’m officially sick.Sick in the head. Luckily his eyes are closed and he can’t see me ogling him.
With a firm mental slap to the face, I examine the damage to his arm. The bullet cut through his bicep and exited on the other side. The wound is a mess but hopefully, it will stop bleeding once I put pressure on it. Ideally, it needs some stitches but I draw the line at that.
There is a clean sheet in the cupboard. I tear some strips off and wrap his arm tightly. The bleeding slows down and he falls deeper into unconsciousness, so I lift his legs, pop a cushion under his head, and open the bottle of wine.
My stomach growls but there’s nothing to eat and I have no money for takeout. So, in the absence of anything better, I’m filling my poor stomach with wine instead.
Once I’ve showered and pulled some old stretchy pants on, I settle in the chair next to my guest and nurse a mug of chardonnay. Bed is calling me but I dare not leave him in case he has a medical emergency. Not that I’d be exactly helpful in such a situation, but old Mrs. Dryzmalski in the apartment opposite has a landline. If the worst happens, I could use it to call 911.
Hopefully, my worst-case scenario doesn’t pan out because Mrs. Dryzmalski hates me after I tripped over her cat. She accused me of trying to murder it, which was unfair. We haven’t spoken since, although the glares she throws me when we pass on the stairs are pretty intimidating.
It occurs to me I don’t know my gangster’s name. I can’t keep calling him ‘gangster’. Maybe he’s carrying some ID? Sure enough, there’s a wallet in the remains of his suit jacket. It contains a thick wad of cash - several thousand dollars at a minimum - plus a black credit card. This guy is seriously loaded. If I was that kind of girl, I could rob him blind and he’d have no idea. Instead, I ignore the money and the credit card and check whether he has ID.
There’s a driver’s license with a name: Salvatore Faugno.
My blood runs cold.
I’ve lived here most of my life. Everyone has heard of the Faugno family. They run the city. Nothing happens without their say-so. If Salvatore is a Faugno, he’s important. Very important.
Oh fuck.
If he dies, I die too.
Chapter Five
Salvatore
Light filters through a slatted blind when I open my eyes. My brain feels like it’s full of cotton wool and my head is pounding. For a moment, I’m confused. Where the fuck am I? This isn’t my apartment. The sofa I’m lying on is more an instrument of torture than a piece of furniture. My back aches and my arm throbs. But I’m still alive, no thanks to Declan O’Connor.
With a grimace, I shift slightly and examine my injured arm. It’s been roughly bandaged up with what looks like strips of a flowery cotton bed sheet.Interesting.Then my eye snags on the girl slumped in an armchair. Her golden hair is a tangled mess of waves and her pink lips are slightly parted in sleep. She’s tiny but also curvy, the gray sweatpants and baggy shirt she wears doing nothing to hide her figure.
I debate whether I should wake her but when I try and sit up, her eyes snap open.
“Oh, you’re still alive,” she comments, sounding almost disappointed.
“Is that a problem?” I am irrationally irritated at the thought she’d prefer me dead.
Her small fist rubs her eyes, drawing my attention to how blue they are. Blue with a hint of green, surrounded with thick lashes.
“No, I was just worried you might have died, which would have been a problem. It was hard enough carrying you up here still breathing.”
I’m shocked at how unfazed she is by everything she’s been through. Most women would be terrified, but not her. My arm shrieks at me as I try to sit up but I ignore the pain. No doubt I’ll have a nice new scar there because the wound wasn’t stitched, but that’s the least of my problems right now. I can’t stay here. There’s a chance Declan will come after me and try to finish what he started last night.
