The Mafia Boss

Ch. 36: I'll put a bullet through your head.

"Almost there," I say, wiping away the access blood with a sterilised towel. "You're doing great, Ryan."

He's half unconscious, likely due to the pain he's suffering. His tolerance is at peak, and I conclude it's probably for the best. I finish the last stitch and cut the thread, deeming my creation shit, but passable. It'll do at least until the realdoctor arrives.

"Imogen." Nathan pokes his head around the door, truly sombre. "It's done."

I can tell by his expression that cleaning the dead body of a three-year-old is an image that'll stay with him for the rest of his life. I probably shouldn't have delegated that job to someone as young as Nathan, but in the moment, I wasn't thinking rationally.

I'll go," insists Torin, stepping forward. "I should be the one to tell his mother."

He goes to move and I stop him with my hand.

"Change," I advise, gesturing towards his bloodied shirt.

He looks down and nods, kissing me briefly before disappearing. Neither of us care who witnessed it. Frank will already know and be less than happy about it. Besides, what's a little kiss that I can later deny ever happened.

"In here!"

The kitchen door bursts open, two figures emerging. One is a beautiful brunette in what looks to be the early stages of pregnancy. The other—a fucking cop! I instantly brandish my gun, aiming it at his head.

"Whoa, easy there!"

"Imogen—" Nathan places a gentle hand on my arm. "It's fine. He's with us."

I scowl. "Since when was Torin friends with cops?"

"Well—I wouldn't exactly call us friends," replies the man in uniform.

The woman he's with ignores our conversation, hands quietly assessing Ryan's wound.

"Who stitched him up?" she asks.

"I did."

She nods, smile impressed. "You did a good job."

She takes out a medical bag and, in that moment, I conclude she's a nurse or something equivalent.

"What're you doing here?" I ask, trying my hardest to keep the distain from showing in my voice.

I don't trust cops. Never have.

"Helping."

"Why?"

"You ask an awful lot of questions," accuses the man, arms crossed.

"I can do whatever I want," is my response. "I'm the one holding a gun."

"A gun you—no doubt—don't have a licence for."

Fuck—he's got me there.

"License or not, I still know how to shoot it."

Something about the way this man smiles has me slowly lowering my gun as a peace offering. Powerful eyes regard mine, silently weighing me up. He's tall, blonde and very pretty. Perhaps a disguise for the ugliness that lies beneath his personality? Am I wrong for judging him based on his chosen occupation? No. Do I like him? Also no.

"Where's Nicole?" he asks, moving matters along.

I cross my arms, feeling oddly protective of my friend.

"What's it to you?"

"I'm her brother."

Oh.

"Is she safe?"