Page 132 of A Vow So Soulless

“They didn’t… I mean… You got there in time. It was just my hands and my knees and…”

And my hands on his legs and his leer in my brain and his fingers so close to –

“And?” he demands, fixing me with a fierce stare.

“And some kind of sedative. I think. I don’t remember much of how I got there.” I reach up and touch the side of my neck. Elio softly bats my hand away, brushing hair back from my skin and swearing.

“I’m going to get Morelli here right now.”

He turns to go, and catastrophic fear tears up my insides.

“Don’t go!”

I grasp his arm between my hands.

The same arm that aimed the gun.

I instantly let go, just like he’s burned me.

“I’m not going anywhere. I can fucking promise you that. I’m just getting my phone.”

He digs around in his pile of clothes, finds it, and makes the call, speaking in Italian before hanging up.

“He’ll be here momentarily. He’s been busy since the shit that went down at the wedding.”

“Oh, God, was anyone badly hurt?” I feel like I’m about to fall right off the counter. But thankfully, Elio shakes his head.

“Sounds like a couple people near the front had some lacerations from broken glass. Little things like that. Nothing serious.”

“But you hit your head. That’s serious!”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I deserve it after letting this happen to you. Merda, Deirdre, when everything was burning, when everything was falling the fuck apart and I realized that your hand wasn’t in mine anymore…”

He bites off the end of his sentence, staring at the floor, jaw working.

“But you came for me,” I remind him in a weak voice. “You found me.”

And you killed my father.

“Yeah. But if I had been five fucking minutes later.” His eyes slice to mine, and the rage is back. I can tell that it’s burning a hole inside him.

Hounding him. Haunting him.

No infinite number of bullets can soothe a fury like that. He could shoot his way through this whole fucking world and still be angry enough to want to go back and kill the corpses.

I’m saved from thinking of something else to say by a sharp rap on the door.

“That’s Morelli,” Elio says. After he gingerly wipes my face and mouth with a clean wet cloth, he picks me up and carries me back to our bedroom, wrapping the fluffy robe around me and cinching the belt tight before opening the door.

Doctor Morelli’s examination of me is quick, thorough, and surprisingly gentle. He gives me an encouraging smile, and then I remember that he’s the father of two daughters around my age.

“Lots of rest,” he tells me. “Lots of water. A little slow tomorrow – like a hangover. After that, OK.”

“What about Elio?” I ask, barely listening to what he says about my condition. He examines Elio, shining a pen light into his eyes and checking the wound at Elio’s temple. He straightens, and when he doesn’t look too worried I breathe out heavily.

“Eh. He got a thick skull,” Doctor Morelli says. “Mild concussion. Rest for him too.”

He turns and says something to Elio in Italian.

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