Page 76 of Unholy Union
“I’m not leaving,” I repeat, even more certain.
He eyes me a second longer as if tempted to question me on it. Then he seems to realize he doesn’t have the energy for our usual back-and-forth and he rolls over onto the sofa cushions. I scoot to the side to make room for him, easing throw pillows out of the way to make him more comfortable.
He doesn’t protest when I reach for his shirt buttons, undoing them one by one, though his bodydoestense with each movement—whether from pain or discomfort, I can’t tell.
When I finally pull the fabric aside, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from gasping.
The bullet wound is worse than I thought.
It’s a deep gash a couple inches left of his collarbone, high on his shoulder, so close to his neck that it makes me dizzy for a second. Almost like the graze on my ear had when pausing to think how close it’d come to being so much worse…
But that’s not the end of it; Cato’s been grazed in two other places. Both in his right thigh. No wonder he’d had such difficulty walking, every step torturous for him.
I pop to my feet, darting from the huge open space of the living room toward what seems to be the bathroom in the hall.
I’m pretty sure the towels I find are Egyptian cotton, but they’re thick and fluffy enough that they’ll do what we need them to for now.
Snatching two off the rack, I rush back to Cato on the sofa.
He’s slumped sideways, his eyes closed as he waits for his private mob-approved physician. His complexion looks paler than usual soaked with so much dark crimson blood. I kneel beside him and press one towel to the wound as gently as I can, tucking the other under his arm to catch whatever I can’t stop from leaking out.
He flinches hard. His breath hitches through clenched teeth. But he doesn’t push me away.
I glance up at him, finding his gaze is already on mine. His eyes are dark and glassy but focused.
We stare at each other for a long, silent moment that feels almost tender. It’s like some strange silent acknowledgment between us that we’re in this together.
I’m here for him, and he’s grateful that I am. He knows I’m not going anywhere.
Just like he stuck by my side.
We’re interrupted by a prompt double knock on the door.
Both of us break eye contact and glance over at the door.
Cato’s voice is edged with caution. “Check the peephole first.”
I rise from the sofa, wiping my hands on the towel in my lap before crossing the room. The door looms in front of me, but I follow his instructions without question. I press one eye to the peephole, blinking against the distorted curve of the lens.
There’s a man standing on the other side. He’s short, squat, and balding, with a thick mustache and a gray overcoat that doesn’t close over his rounded belly. His hand is raised, ready to knock again.
I glance over my shoulder. “Short. Bald. Giant mustache. Kind of like the Monopoly Man but with a belly.”
Cato exhales through his nose, the closest thing he’s come to a laugh in the last hour. “That’s him.”
I undo the locks and open the door, stepping aside as the man marches in without hesitation or greeting. He carries a weathered black medical bag that swings with each stride. He doesn’t look at me or ask any real questions, simply walking straight over to Cato like he’s unsurprised to find him shot and bleeding.
“Mm,” he clicks his tongue, setting the bag down with a thud beside the sofa. “Again.”
Two hours pass with Dr. Linetti working on Cato. I hover in the background, watching as he removes the bullet and stitches the wound at Cato’s shoulder with steady, unflinching hands. He treats the grazes on his upper thigh next, finishing those up in minutes.
When it’s finally over, Linetti administers a dose of something via syringe, then snaps the latex gloves off his hands. He closes his medical bag and turns toward the door.
“Try not to get shot next time,” he says flatly, as though he’s reminding Cato to take his daily dose of vitamins.
He’s gone without another word.
I blink after him, startled by the efficiency and complete lack of concern. There’s no follow-up, no bedside manner, no instructions on what to do next. Just a closed door and the lingering scent of disinfectant in his wake.
