Page 143 of Ruthless Redemption

I screamas Matthew tackles Emmanuel to the ground.

“Bella,” Lorenzo shouts as the front door slams. “Hide.”

I don’t know what to do. Where to go.

I have to get outside.

My grip sweats around the Glock as I aim it toward the glass, preparing to shoot.

“Layla,no.”

I turn toward Lorenzo’s voice. He stumbles from the hall, his face grey, a gun in one hand, his cell in the other.

“Maria’s dead.” He pockets the phone. “But the house is safe for now. I have to get you in the panic room before that changes.”

“I can’t leave Matthew.”

“Help is already on the way.” Lorenzo beckons me with a wave of his weapon. “Come. Hurry.”

A thud hits the glass behind me, making me scream.

I swing around and Salvatore is there. On the other side of the door. Peering at me through the blood splatter.

He grasps the handle, frantically working the lever.

“It’s locked,” I yell, then twist toward Lorenzo. “Give me the key.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t risk the threat getting inside. Matthew would never forgive me.”

“I don’t care.” I run to him, prepared to claw through each of his pockets to find which one hides my freedom, but I skitter to a stop at the blood dripping from the hem of his black pants to pool beside his foot. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s a scratch.” He limps toward the hall leading away from the entry. “Follow me.”

“No. Wait.”Shit.He’s bleeding too much.

“Layla,” he grates.

“Please. Let me take a look. You can’t help me if you die. Now sit.”

He raises his chin, stubborn.

“Sit.” I grab his shoulders and add pressure as gunfire carries from outside. I want to cry. To scream. But I hold it in. I push it down.

“I understand why he’s infatuated with you,” Lorenzo murmurs.

“You won’t for much longer if you don’t sit.”

He heaves a sigh and leans into the hallway wall, sliding down the plaster to come to a hard stop on the tile. He hisses in pain, his face scrunching into a mass of weathered wrinkles.

I place my gun on the ground and rip at the hole in his suit pants. He’s been shot. I push at his leg, twisting the limb to find the exit wound. “It went straight through. In and out within a few inches.”

“See? Nothing to worry about.”

“You’re still losing a lot of blood.” I yank off my sweater, wrap it around his thigh above the injury, then knot it tight.

“Figlio di puttana,” he growls.

“Sorry.” I meet his gaze. “You said help is on the way?”

---