Chapter 147

The warehouse is just as creepy and as bleak as I thought it would be, with low lighting and mysterious damp patches on the floors. There isn’t even anything here being stored – it’s just a strange, dank place that Christian apparently keeps for nefarious meetings.

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice dubious as I sink to the floor at Frankie’s side. “This doesn’t seem like the most sanitary place for medical triage, Frank.”

“It’ll be all right,” Frankie says, seated in a chair in his boxer briefs so that his wound is at my eye-level. A little distance away from us Christian and Nico work to secure Bonetti’s four men to chairs, handcuffing them and duct taping various body parts down so they can’t move at all.

I glance over at Nico and my husband before returning my eyes to Frankie’s leg, frowning a little as I lean close to the wound. Frankie wasn’t lying before – it really was a glancing shot, the bullet apparently skimming by him and just taking some skin and a very small amount of flesh as it went.

He’s very, very lucky – or very good. I don’t know which. I glance up at him. “I know the basics of first aid,” I say quietly, “but you’re going to have to walk me through the suturing part.”

“What,” he says, reaching out a hand and idly letting his fingers play with one of my curls. “You never learned how to sew, little miss domestic bliss?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow at him. “What, do you want me to cross-stitch it?”

Frankie bursts out laughing and drops my hair, tilting his head back as his laughter continues.

I grin too – I can’t help it - but I sigh and open the little medical kit, starting to clean the wound. “What about the other guy?” I ask, glancing over to where Christian and Nico continue to work. “Is he going to need stitches?”

“Probably,” Frankie says passively, looking over at them. “He’s going to need a doctor, not just a stripper who knows first aid. But that’s Bonetti’s problem, not ours. And he’ll make it until that happens – I missed major arteries.”

“How do you know that you missed major arteries,” I murmur, smirking and ignoring his little stripper remark as I dab his wound with alcohol on a cotton swab. Frankie hisses at the sharp feel of the astringent. “Baby,” I murmur, and he ignores me this time.

“I know I missed them,” he says, through slightly gritted teeth as I finish up cleaning the wound, “because I know where I put the bullet.”

“Really?” I ask, looking up at him, a little surprised to find his eyes steady on me. “So even in all that rush, running, you were able to be that precise with where you placed the bullet?”

“I’m the best, Bambs,” he says, giving me a smirk and a wink.

“Fine, color me impressed,” I say, shaking my head and reaching for the needle and thread in the kit, wanting to get this part over with. But I pause as I thread the needle, looking up at him. “Why didn’t you just kill him, then?”

“Because,” Frankie says softly, his eyes a little sad. “I don’t like killing people, Bambi. I like my work, I like protecting Christian, I like protecting you. But if I have a choice between murder and life I’ll pick life every time.”

“Oh,” I say, my eyes going a little wide as I realize that Frankie had that answer ready on his tongue – that it’s something he’s given a lot of thought to in his life. But of course he has – Frankie, he’s got depths. There’s no way he hasn’t grappled with these questions long before I have.

“Don’t go thinking I’m too good, Iris,” Frankie says, his voice dropping low like it’s a secret. “I’ve killed a lot of people. I’m no angel of mercy.”

I twist my mouth to the side a little, not knowing what to say about that – not knowing what to think about it either. He just gives me a little smile and raises his chin towards the needle in my hand. “Get a move on, kid,” he says, looking back to where Nico and Christian are finishing up. “We have work to do.”

I clear my throat, and concentrate on threading the needle, and then get to work following Frankie’s instructions as he walks me through the suture process.

“Nicely done,” Frankie says with approval when I’m about halfway through. “Very nice and neat. I’ll hardly even have a scar to remember this moment, which is a shame.”

I glance up at him, laughing a little. “You seriously want to remember this?”

“The image of you kneeling at my feet, Bambi? When I’m sitting around in my underwear?” My eyes go wide as I gasp and stare up at him, appalled at his gall. Frankie bursts out laughing again, shaking his head. “Yeah, this is something I’m going to remember for years to come.”

I just scowl and flick his gunshot wound with my finger, hard, and he gasps before starting to laugh again.

“If you two are done having so much fun,” Nico says, dry, coming over to us and glaring between us. “Christian wants to make the call.” I smirk at Nico and turn my eyes back to the wound, not really willing to feel bad about it. It’s been a stressful day and Frankie’s cheering me up.

“Two more minutes,” Frankie says, nodding to Nico but still smiling just a bit. Nico nods back and then walks off to the shabby little office in the corner of the warehouse. I concentrate on getting the stitches finished, and then we wrap the wound and get Frankie’s pants back on.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, hesitating, standing and watching as the wound disappears beneath black wool fabric.

“Hurts like hell,” Frankie murmurs, fastening the top button and then slipping his arm around my shoulders. “But don’t worry about me – we’ve got bigger things on our plates.” He turns me with him, and together we walk towards the office where Nico and Christian wait, talking softly to each other. I glance over at the men strapped to their chairs, sitting in forced silence, hoping to hell this goes as planned.

Because if it doesn’t, we could be in big trouble. And despite Christian’s assurances that everything is absolutely going to go as planned – that it can’t not go well – anxiety pools in me, feeling like it’s filling me up from toe to head.

Christian looks up immediately as Frankie and I walk into the office, his eyes sweeping over us, assessing. “You two good?” he asks, sharp.

I nod and Frankie murmurs an affirmative. Christian nods back and pulls his phone out of his pocket, placing it on the table between us. “Next, we make a phone call. Everyone just stay…very quiet. Let me handle this. Okay?”

Tense, we all nod, and Christian looks at each of us in turn. “This is going to work.”

Frankie and Nico each nod their assurances, but I just press my hands together in front of me, hoping to hell that he’s right. Christian exhales a long breath and then swipes through a few screens on his phone, apparently finding the number he wants and placing a call.

The phone is on speaker. It rings four, five times. I press my hands tighter together, wondering what the hell happens if Bonetti doesn’t pick up. I glance anxiously towards the men in the other room, worrying about the one with the bullet wound – will he survive if we have to wait for Bonetti to pick up the call? Will he –

“Cristian Romano.”

My head snaps back to the phone on the table, shivers running through me as I hear the cold voice of my previous captor. God, but the moment I hear that voice I’m right back there – right with this man, tied up in his basement, panting in pain. I go tense and Frankie takes a step closer to me.

“Don Bonetti,” Christian replies, his voice even and confident. “My old friend. Thank you so much for taking my call.”

“Oh, but how could I not, Cristian,” Bonetti murmurs, too casual. “Considering that you have some things – someones – that belong to me.”