Carlos grins at me and ends the call. His two gold teeth glint under the dim bulb. “You’re coming with me. I hear you’re a nurse.”
He retrieves a set of handcuffs from his back pocket. “First, you put these on. Then I’ll take off the ankle restraints.”
I hold out my arms, and he snaps the metal cuffs onto my wrists. I don’t fight him, not yet, while I’m still secured to the floor.
Satisfied that he has me under his control, he unlocks the bindings around my ankles. “Come with me,” he says and leads me up the rickety wooden staircase.
The air is musky and stale upstairs, just as bad as the cellar. Where the hell are we?
There’s dust in every corner and sheets covering the furniture. This isn’t where Carlos lives, and it’s not his complex, where Mikhail is meeting him.
Bile rises to my throat, and I swallow it back down.
Carlos set Mikhail up. I don’t know what’s waiting for Mikhail at the complex, but I’m not there. There won’t be any negotiations or chance he’ll rescue me and take me home.
I doubt he’d set me free. He probably won’t even show up to offer Carlos what he wants. Why would he? I’m just a girl who burned him from the inside out.
He hates me, and I don’t blame him.
“Where are we?” I ask. My voice is soft and unthreatening. My hands are still bound, but they’re in front of me, allowing me to fight back when the time is right.
Not yet. Not with Carlos and his men prowling the area. I don’t want to experience another stun gun on my back or, worse, a bullet to the head.
Carlos escorts me through the kitchen and past Sergei’s body. He’s lying on the floor in a pool of his blood. He steps over the corpse like he’s a child’s toy that hasn’t been picked up. “This way,” he says, expecting me to follow.
There are two members of the cartel seated at the kitchen table with guns in their hands, watching me. It’s like they’re waiting to kill me, itching to pull the trigger.
I obediently follow Carlos through the kitchen, and then he leads me up a back stairwell to the second story. The house is filled with cobwebs. The place has been vacated for quite some time.
“I need you to fix him,” Carlos says as he leads me into a bedroom. A man is lying on the mattress, his face red, and he’s groaning.
“I can’t do anything with my hands like this,” I say, showing him the handcuffs.
Carlos grumbles and shoves the key into the lock, removing the cuffs.
“Do you have any medical supplies?” I ask as I approach the patient. His forehead is glistening with sweat. By the looks of it, I’d surmise he’s running a fever.
“Not much,” Carlos admits and glances around the room. “We haven’t been here in a while.”
“The dust gave it away,” I say.
Carlos backhands me across the face. “Watch your tone. You’re a prisoner, not a guest.” The recent bruise that Aaron left on my skin throbs all over again. I wince and examine the patient. “I’m Madisyn,” I say to the patient, introducing myself.
“Reece,” he rasps. He’s wincing in agony as he speaks.
Why is he trying to hide his discomfort?
“I’m a nurse. Can I ask you a few questions?”
He nods weakly. His cheeks are red, his pupils wide, but the room is dimly lit. I open the curtains and allow more light to filter into the room.
“Do you have any recent injuries or infections?” I ask as I approach his bedside to better look at him. His cheeks are flushed.
I don’t know what I’m dealing with other than the cartel and a heap of trouble.
His eyes are glassy and he glances past me at Carlos.
“I may have sustained an injury,” he says. He’s careful how he answers. I suspect Carlos is behind that injury but mustn’t want him dead like Sergei.
“May I see it?” I ask, keeping my tone calm and gentle.
He lifts his shirt, and there’s an obvious sign of infection around what appears to be a recent stab wound. The wound is red and swollen.
“Your injury is infected,” I say. “We need to get you antibiotics.”
“There aren’t any here. What other suggestions do you have?” Carlos says.
I shuffle away from the bed and stalk toward Carlos. “Aside from taking him to a hospital?”
At least the bratva were prepared when their associate had been injured. Mikhail had ensured that his men could have proper medical care at the medical center or in his home.
“That’s out of the question.”
“This place isn’t the least bit sterile. You don’t have the necessary medical equipment to tend to his injuries. He needs his wound cleaned and bandaged. He should have had stitches, but it’s too late for that at this point.”
“Can’t you mash up ingredients and make a paste? Something to put on his wound to prevent the infection from getting worse and out of control.”
“He needs antibiotics. His wound needs to be properly cared for, and this environment is not up to the standards that he requires. Take him to your complex.”