Or maybe she just sees the resemblance.
“Let me see.” She pries the blood-soaked washcloth from his wound. “Gunshot wound,” she mutters. “Help me roll him to the side to check for an exit wound.”
I’ve already noted one, but I help her see for herself.
“Good, that’s good. It means we won’t have to go digging out a bullet. How much blood has he lost?”
I don’t know if she expects me to give an actual calculation, but all I can do is hold up the first towel he went through before the current washcloth.
“Great. That’s a good sign, too. There would be way more blood if it hit anything major.”
I’d already guessed at the same, but I don’t disturb her process. “Tell me what you need.” I lift my chin at Paolo, who’s standing in the doorway. He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over the keypad.
“A needle and thread to close the wounds. Gauze to pack them. Saline. Lots of saline—to keep them clean. I can use Everclear or some other alcohol in a pinch, but I’d really prefer saline. And I’ll need IV needles—21 gauge if you can get them. And the bags and tubes. Sodium potassium for the IV. And an antibiotic. Is he allergic to penicillin?”
“No.” My throat closes, a fresh rush of fear for Gio flooding me.
“Then penicillin.”
“Hang on. Back up. I didn’t get it all,” Paolo mutters.
She repeats the list for him. “Also, any pain killer or muscle relaxant would be good, because it’s going to hurt like hell for a good while.”
“Got it,” Paolo says.
I’m feeling better about my decision to involve Desiree by the minute. Her swift, incisive action is exactly how she won over my impossible-to-please ma when she worked for her. She’s excellent at what she does.
And so very nice on the eyes, too.
Not that I dragged her here for that.
She eyes the bloody towels again. “I don’t think we’ll need a blood transfusion.”
“If we do, you can take my blood,” I say quickly. I remember getting typed when we were kids and we Tacones were all the same—O positive.
“Or mine,” Paolo says. He’s nearly as pale as Gio.
“Is that it for medical supplies?” I ask.
“In the trunk of my car is a med kit. I’d like to have that, too.”
“Get her car somewhere safe,” I tell Paolo.
“On it,” Paolo mutters, leaving.
I don’t have a clue where he’s going to get all the shit she needs, but I know he’ll figure it the fuck out, just like he somehow figured out how to find and bring Desiree. This is our brother’s life on the line.
* * *
Desiree
“Giovanni,” I blurt, finally remembering Junior’s brother’s name. I met him once at his mom’s house.
My heart’s been beating hard since I saw him lying on the bed with a bullet wound soaking the sheets. I don’t know why I care so much, but it seems worse when you know the guy.
And I guess I hardly know him, but I looked after his mom for nearly three months and she talked about her kids all the time.
His eyelids flutter open and he focuses on me and groans.
“Don’t move,” I warn him. “I know it hurts. Don’t worry. We’re going to take care of you, Giovanni.”
“Gio,” Junior rumbles beside me.
“He goes by Gio. Got it.” I straighten and look at him. “Listen, I can’t do much until you get me the supplies. I don’t want to stitch the wound until I clean it. I think he’s relatively stable if we don’t let him move.”
Junior nods. “Paolo’s getting the supplies.”
And since there’s nothing to do but wait, I decide to make my dissatisfaction felt. “You can’t just kidnap me anytime you need a nurse.”
Junior’s face goes completely impassive. He says nothing.
Nothing.
Like he’s not even going to dignify me with an answer.
I smack his chest. “Seriously.”
He catches my hand and pulls it back to his chest. “Careful, doll. I said I’d let it slide last time. You hit me again, there’s gonna be consequences.”
A shiver runs up my spine, but it’s more thrill than real fear. I know, because my panties also dampen. I love having Junior talk consequences with me in his deep gravelly voice while holding my hand to his chest and standing inches away.
I almost love it enough to press my luck and find out exactly what those consequences will be, but I’m not quite that stupid.
I try to shove him away and retrieve my hand but he doesn’t budge and my hand stays glued where it lies.
He dips his head and pins me with a dark stare. “You take care of Gio, I’ll take care of you.”
Now a little trickle of fear runs through me, even though I think he’s making me some kind of offer, rather than a threat. I hear the undertones of every mafia deal on TV in his words, and it freaks me out.