Page 38 of Bellini Bound
Hearing that—knowing it made sense—didn’t erase the guilt of costing a man his life, even if he’d caused me harm. Surely, there had to be another way, another punishment perhaps, that would enact retribution for his wrongdoing. Maybe a dock in pay? A demotion? I might be grasping at straws, but I at least had to try.
“Please don’t,” I begged.
Enzo stared up at me, his tongue darting out to moisten his lower lip, and a flash of silver caught my attention.
Holy hell, did he have a tongue piercing? I shouldn’t be all that surprised, considering he was covered in tattoos as far as the eye could see, but still. It only ratcheted up his hotness level about a hundred degrees, and there was no question that if I got too close, I’d wind up getting burned.
But like a moth drawn to a flame, I was facing a fatal attraction—one I had zero chance of surviving.
“All right,” Enzo agreed.
Relief washed over me. I might not be practicing medicine anymore, but I’d managed to save a life.
Speaking of . . .
My eyes locked on the sleeve of Enzo’s T-shirt, which was plastered to his bicep, the blood soaking through the black fabric making it appear even darker. I gestured toward the injury. “May I?”
He offered me a grunt in response.
“Can you lift your arm at all to remove the shirt?”
“I’d rather not.” His face was pinched tight, the pain level clearly affecting him.
“Okay.”
I spun around and began rummaging through the drawers beside the sink. Returning with a pair of scissors, I pulled the fabric taut and then cut through it. Enzo hissed when the cotton that had stuck to the skin around his wound was pulled away.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
If there was one thing I hated, it was causing my patients additional discomfort.
“It’s fine,” he gritted out, nostrils flaring.
Palpating around the torn skin where a bullet had entered his body, I gently worked my way around the limb, cursing under my breath. “Shit. No exit wound.”
“You’re qualified to dig the lead out, yeah?” He sounded tired, no doubt a result of the blood loss he’d sustained.
I tilted my head from side to side. “Technically, yes. But I don’t have any sterile supplies or anesthetic.” Pursing my lips, I surmised, “Going to a hospital is completely out of the question?”
He gave a tight nod. “Tonight, it is.”
“What makes tonight so special?”
“The slug stuck in my arm is courtesy of a police-issued firearm.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Was it—?”
“Not that I could tell,” he answered the unspoken question as to whether it was my father who’d shot him.
Retrieving a set of tweezers and a lighter, I ran the sharp metal tips through the flame in a makeshift attempt at sterilization. “Wanna tell me what happened?”
A scraping noise had me turning to find him running a hand across his stubbled jaw. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to.”
His vague response kept me from pressing for more information. I suppose it didn’t matter. The details wouldn’t deter me from providing him with medical care. In fact, this was where I thrived—helping others.
“This is going to hurt like a bitch without lidocaine,” I warned.
A corner of his lips twitched. “Wouldn’t say no to a bottle of whiskey.”
