I took it and unlocked his door. I got him in, closed it, locked it again, and helped him onto the lone, sad chair. He sighed and leaned his head back, eyes fluttering.
I slapped him in the face.
He sucked in air like he’d been holding his breath underwater for an hour.
“Don’t pass out,” I said, glaring at him. “Now what do I do?”
“Kitchen. Top cabinet. Above the fridge.”
I ran into the kitchen. Blood stained the floor. He’d dripped it all over the place. I stood on my toes to reach the cabinet and managed to get it open, my hands shaking like crazy.
Bottles of vodka lined the shelf.
“It’s liquor,” I said. “What the fuck?”
“Sterilize. And pain. Hurry.”
I grabbed a bottle, cursing. It was Tito’s. Good stuff. I hoped it would help but wasn’t feeling optimistic. I shoved the bottle into his hand and he opened the top with his teeth. He tilted back his head and took three long gulps before shoving the bottle back at me.
“First aid kit in my bathroom. Needle and thread in there.”
I found it tucked beneath the sink. I washed my hands, making sure they were clean. When I came back, he was shirtless. His chest was muscular and covered in tattoos. Mal was beautiful, but peppered with scars, ugly and twisted, from years and years of fights and hard living. Sometimes I forgot where Mal was from and what he’d done. He poured the vodka directly on the ugly, seeping wound, drenching himself and the floor with mingled alcohol and blood. He growled, teeth clenched, face pale, cursing like his life depended on it, and it might’ve. I opened the kit, tore through some packages, and found the needle and thread. At least it was sterile.
“Do it,” he said, taking another long drink.
“Are you sure? You might just keep bleeding. If there’s internal damage—”
“Then I’m dead. Stitch me.”
I knelt down and got to work. It was awkward at first—I’d never sewn someone up before—but I got the hang of it. Through the whole process, Mal sat there staring at the wall, his teeth grinding, his eyes wide, and his skin clammy and pale.
It took eight stitches to close the wound. I probably should’ve done more, but I could tell he’d had enough. I put a big bandage over my work and taped it all up. When I was done, I washed my hands in the kitchen, and Mal drank the rest of the vodka.
The floor was a wreck. I had Mal’s blood on my dress and I had no clue how I’d explain that, but it didn’t matter. I walked over and touched his leg gently.
“Let’s get you in bed.”
His eyes blinked at me and he grinned. “Making a move already, Cap? Carmine’s barely cold.”
I slapped his shoulder. “You must be drunk. Come on, asshole.”
He grunted and let me help him up. We staggered into the bedroom, and I lowered him onto the mattress. He sat with his back propped against the wall and I sat at the other end. He stared at me through hooded, heavy-lidded eyes. He was still pale, but he wasn’t sweating anymore at least.
“Look at you,” he said, head tilted to the side. His gaze sent a shiver down my skin. “You’re a real hard mafia girl now.”
“Yeah? Is that all it takes? Just gotta stitch up the first dumb asshole that gets himself stabbed and you’re a part of the family.”
“Pretty much. Did I ever tell you about the time I stitched up Carmine?”
“Twice. But tell me again. I haven’t heard any good stories about him in a while.”
He laughed and looked at his hands. They were shaking.
“It was a week after you two learned your parents were setting you up. He was pretty conflicted about the whole thing. He loved you, Cap, but not like that. I think you felt the same.”
“Yeah, I felt the same.”
He nodded and went on. “We were working one night. Moving some pills we scored off a rival group, just some low-level cartel guys. We jacked them up and ripped them off. It was a fun time. So we were moving that weight. It wasn’t much. But around two in the morning, when the clubs all let out, those cartel guys found us, and they weren’t happy. I took down one, but the littler guy cut Carmine real bad right down his chest. I bashed that bastard in the throat with my baton. Not sure if he lived. Probably didn’t.”
I closed my eyes and tried not to smile at the thought of Mal and Carmine fighting side by side. “I said a good story.”
“I’m getting there.” He shifted slightly, sitting up straighter, hand pressed against his wound. “Carmine’s cursing, right? He’s all like, the fucker, the fucker, his knife was poisoned. Poisoned! He poisoned me! Going on and on about it.”