Snapping Point||Book 1

47.

Xenia Butler

When Ottavio stormed back into the living room, Romano had sunk into the chair, groaning with each breath as if it might be his last. Ottavio was yelling into the phone, issuing commands to whoever was on the line, his temper flaring uncontrollably. It was the most intense anger I had ever seen, a blend of frustration and confusion to give the worst kind of fury. The attack had clearly disoriented him, plain in the widening of his nostrils and the bulging veins on his neck and forehead.

Had he ever witnessed Romano so injured, on the brink of exhaustion from blood loss? Observing Ottavio's fretful behavior, I surmised Romano was in trouble, perhaps due to the recent attack, and I hoped it wasn't our sins catching up to us.

We found ourselves inside the cabin. Ottavio had whisked us away from Paradise Lane without medical assistance. However, prior to that, I had taken on the role of makeshift medic, following Romano's instructions to apply pressure to the wound to stem the bleeding with a piece of his shirt after he had vomited twice.

"Doctor's on her way," Ottavio had explained his reason for coming alone and then asked me with a hell of an attitude, "Did you see a face?"

"No, the shooter wore a mask."

With blood-stained hands still trembling, I watched as Romano's lower lip bore the marks of his teeth as he was consumed by the pain. I nudged him gently, trying to keep him grounded, but his weak grunt shattered my composure once again. He looked so fragile, showcasing a vulnerability that was completely out of character for him.

"Doc's running behind; I bet it'll be another ten minutes before she arrives," Ottavio said, and turned to me. His tone bordered on disrespectful as he pressed on, "Ever extracted a bullet from someone before?"

I shook my head. Not once. Any notion he had of my abilities was misplaced. I lacked the expertise to remove a bullet, let alone stitch up a wound. "I'm not a doctor; I know nothing about medicine."

Directing his frustration solely at me, Ottavio let out an exasperated sigh. Moments later, he disappeared into the house and emerged with a first aid kit. Placing it on the table, the lid popped open, revealing its contents before me.

His agitation was doubled. "Damn it! What about the car's plates, did you see them?"

"It was too dark..." indeed, it was pitch black. The license plate was the least of my concerns with a bullet lodged in Romano's shoulder. "...I didn't see a thing."

I scrutinized the unfamiliar objects in the box, and my anxiety only knocked me back again. Ottavio had expectations, and I damn well I knew I couldn't attempt what he had in mind.

Pinching his nose shut, he waved his gun around. It seemed he loathed the sight or perhaps the smell of blood. Such a peculiar aversion for a man of his stature. After all, he made a living through killing; one would assume he'd grown accustomed to the metallic tang of blood.

Romano's strained voice conveyed a sense of urgency as he looked to me for action. "If the doctor doesn't arrive in time, can you do it?"

With trembling hands, I drew in a deep breath, mentally preparing for the worst. I watched Ottavio retreat from the scene. Then, shaking my head, I replied, "I can't remove a bullet from your shoulder, Romano. It's too dangerous, especially considering the blood loss you've suffered. I won't take that risk."

"You watch American Tv shows, yes?" A pained smile floated across his lips.

I chuckled softly at his attempt to lighten the mood. It was admirable for him to consider my well-being despite his own pain and peril. "This is reality, not fiction." I gently pressed my index finger against his lips to silence any further suggestions. "Enough. The doctor will arrive in time."