Page 167 of Dark Romeo

She cared. Despite the hell I had put her through.

This was my second chance at life. My second chance to grab on to the things that mattered. I had run away from her just like I’d run from everyone else I’d ever loved. I would not make that same mistake again.

“Damn you.” I yanked her towards me, a little too hard. She stumbled and fell against my chest. Everywhere she touched me felt like it was on fire. “You were supposed to stay away from me.”

“I couldn’t just let you die.” Her fists still beat against me, although this time there was no real intent behind her attack except the hunger flaring in her eyes. She still wanted me, even after all I had done…

I dropped my face towards her mouth.

“Stop,” a voice boomed out, cutting through us. “Or I’ll shoot.”

JULIANNA

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Stop. Or I’ll shoot.

I would recognize that voice in my sleep. It washed over me like boiling water on icy glass, sending cracks right through me.

Espinoza.

He was standing at the far end of the alleyway where I had come from, legs in a wide stance, gun pointed.

I knew how we looked; Roman gripping me too tightly, leaning in too closely, me beating at his chest. It looked like Roman was hurting me. It looked like I was trying to make him let go of me. Espo didn’t know the truth that lay beneath us. He only saw what was on the surface. He only saw what his prejudice would allow him to see.

Everything slowed down to a sticky crawl, like the world was suddenly drowning underwater. My heartbeat thudded, low and muffled in my ears.

Several things happened at once. Espinoza cocked his gun, the black evil eye of it focused on Roman.

“No, wait!” I screamed as Roman shoved me behind him, trying to shield me with his body. His movements were too fast. You don’t make fast movements in front of a cop with a gun.

Don’t shoot! But before I could get these words out, the boom of Espo’s gun was reverberating through the air in sticky waves, drowning out my scream.

Something collided with Roman’s body from the side. Mercutio. Mercutio had thrown himself at Roman. They were both going down. Down towards the dirty black earth.

ROMAN

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Espinoza pointed his gun at me. I could see hate contorting his face, his prejudice twisting my actions into something nefarious. He would never believe that I wasn’t standing here assaulting Julianna. I imagined him pulling the trigger only a split second before he did.

Bang!

I braced myself for pain. I was hit from the side as Mercutio slammed into me. I had almost forgotten he was there. We hit the ground like a fallen tree. For a split second I remained still, my body frozen with shock, waiting for a starburst of pain and the inevitable burning ache.

When I was sixteen, my father had bought me a Glock 19. He made me practice loading a full magazine over and over again until I could do it in under ten seconds without a speed loader. When I succeeded, my father took the Glock from me, a slight smile of pride on his face, and turned it over in his hands. Then he pointed it at me and shot me. The bullet had lodged in my shoulder.

It had been one of his lessons. He had wanted me to feel what it was like to be shot. He wanted me to learn to handle the burning pain, like someone had shoved a red-hot poker through my arm. He made me tie off a tourniquet myself, torn from my own bloody shirt. He glared at me every time water dared to leak from my eye. I’d passed out well before his off-the-books doctor approached me with a scalpel and a pair of tweezers.

In Dead Man’s Alley, I lay on the gritty ground, Mercutio’s weight on me. I felt none of this pain. My relief was shattered by a wet, sticky sensation on my chest and the tang of metal in the air. Blood. Not my blood.

No no no, my mind begged uselessly. I rolled my best friend off me and onto his back, everything else forgotten.

“Merc.” I hovered over him, ignoring the grit cutting into my knees. A sticky mess spread from his chest. This could not be happening. Mercutio refused to even hold a gun. What kind of God would let this happen?

“I think I got shot.” Merc coughed and redness spluttered from his lips. Shit. His lung had been punctured.

“No shit, Sherlock.” I pressed my hands over his chest. If I pressed hard enough, if I spread both my hands, if I fucking willed it hard enough, he would stop bleeding. He had to stop bleeding.

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