Page 21 of Covert Desires

Using the remaining clean water, I flush the wound as thoroughly as possible, trying to remove any debris and pus—just like they taught me in the army.

This man needs proper medical attention, but there’s none on this island right now. I’m his best bet.

Thank fuck I always keep a well-stocked first-aid kit. An old contact from my past ensures I have all the meds I need, including some pretty strong antibiotics I’m going to have to force-feed this man.

But for now, that wound needs to be closed. So, I rummage through my art supplies for the sewing kit, grabbing a few other things I will need.

My mind is calm and focused as I sterilize the needle and tweezers over a candle flame, dousing them in antiseptic afterward.

It takes some effort, but I manage to get Nico to swallow a couple of painkillers and an aspirin. For what it’s worth.

Like I’m about to mend a sock rather than a man, I thread the needle with the cleanest, strongest thread I have, sterilizing the sharp metal again.

Oh god.This isn’t ideal. But there is no other option.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself of my training.

You can do this, Kiah.

Climbing on the bed, I position myself over Nico’s waist, straddling him, to get the best angle on the wound.

“This is going to hurt like a motherfucker,” I whisper without expecting a response.

There is none.

Working carefully but quickly, I begin suturing, stitching the edges of the wound together.

The cut is deep but not deep enough to reach muscle. He should be okay with external stitches only—I hope.

As the storm continues raging outside, the needle moves in and out of the bruised skin, my hands steady despite the situation.

One stitch, then another, until I’ve closed the entire length of the wound with about twelve more stitches.

Each pass of the needle through Nico’s skin makes him twitch and groan, but he doesn’t fully wake up.

When the jagged line of tiny stitches reaches the end of the nasty cut, I tie the thread off with secure knots, hoping it’s tight but not too tight to fuck with his circulation.

Finally, I smear a generous amount of antibiotic ointment over the sutures before wrapping up the wound as best I can with gauze and bandages.

That’s when I notice it—the familiar tattoo hidden among the other artworks on Nico’s fully-inked right arm.

No, it can’t be.

But it is.

Staring back at me is the Ricci family crest, clear as day, permanently etched onto Nico’s skin, just like every other member of that fucked-up family.

It was my job to know everything there was to know about the crime families. It’s what kept me alive, out of their way.

Surely, he can’t be a Ricci?

Not here.

Whyis he here?

Holy fuck.This is worse than I thought.

If the mafia comes looking for him, it won’t end well for me.

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