Page 33 of When Lies Unfold

With her lips pursed at the sight of the suturin’ needle, she reaches for her sewin’ kit. Flippin’ one of the inner flaps back, she withdraws an extremely thin but large hooked needle and a tool I’ve seen our doc use to assist with suturin’.

Gordo and I exchange another look, ’cause we both know that needle sure as hell isn’t for regular sewin’. This one’s specifically made for stitchin’ up flesh.

With fast precision, she threads the needle and uses the tool to feed the needle through Andro’s skin with a sleek swoop.

When my nephew howls in protest of the first stitch, “Get this fuckin’ bitch away from me!” and starts thrashin’, she grunts before commandin’, “Hold him still!”

With a look of utter concentration, she braces a hand against his hip. Her movements are fluid and confident, her features a mask of fierce concentration. As she feeds the threaded needle through his skin, making one stitch after the next, there’s a slight tremble in her left hand that’s braced near the wound. Those slim, inked fingers flex randomly.

When my nephew’s body goes listless, my men start forward, intent on tearin’ her away from him. Before I can say a word, though, her searin’ look and words stop ’em in their tracks.

“Don’t touch me if you want him to live and not die of infection.” Coolly returnin’ her attention to her task, she mutters, “He’s unconscious, not dead, you morons.”

Under her breath, barely audible, she hisses, “If I wanted the asshole dead, would I bother with any of this?”

Her left hand remains splayed around the wound, and those tattooed butterflies decoratin’ the top of her hand and their wings extendin’ to her knuckles flex with each twitch of her fingers. It gives the impression they’re cravin’ to be involved in the process.

Once she’s finished and has sprinkled another application of cayenne pepper over the stitched flesh, she secures a bandage overtop the wound. Her shoulders slump in what I assume is relief or exhaustion. It’s hard to say which.

Settin’ down her needle with more care than I would’ve anticipated, she releases a long breath. “He’ll need to rest and be monitored for any signs of infection, just in case.”

I study her movements as she removes her gloves like I’ve seen our doc do countless times before. She’s not new to this sort of thing, that much is clear.

Gordo murmurs, “Doc’s on his way.”

Our doctor—the one who takes care of our people without any record of shit goin’ down.

“Miss Arias,” I address the unusually quiet woman across from me. “Gordo’ll show you where you can clean up.”

As if suddenly realizin’ she’s only in her sports bra and leggin’s, both now stained with blood, she peers down at herself. A little crease forms between her brows.

Streaks of red decorate her bare skin above and below her bra, and her hands are discolored as well. She nods, wrappin’ her arms across her chest, and dutifully follows Gordo down the hall.

I signal for my staff to clean up the mess on the dinin’ room table and rest my back against the wall. My focus remains on the bloodstained cloths Lola used as they’re bein’ disposed of while the medical supplies will be properly sterilized.

“Don’t toss that sewin’ kit.” My words emerge in a short, clipped command, and my staff acknowledges it.

When Gordo rejoins me, I mutter under my breath, “The fuck is a house cleaner doin’ with a sewin’ kit with needles for stitchin’ up people?”

“Somethin’ sure don’t seem right.” He casts a glance around us before lowerin’ his voice to not be overheard. “She seemed off when I showed her to the bathroom. Like she was in a daze.” He slides me a look that resembles concern before addin’, “Kept starin’ down at her hands.”

My sharp gaze cuts to him, and he holds up his palms in surrender. “Just sayin’ what I saw.” He falls quiet for a beat as we stare at the table my staff is makin’ quick work of cleanin’. “She seemed to know what she was doin’.”

A rumble climbs up my throat. “Yeah. She sure as fuck did.” I reach up to grip the tense muscles in the back of my neck. “Didn’t hesitate one second.”

Gordo dips his chin in a curt nod of agreement before I pose the question that’s been naggin’ at me. “You think he was really gonna shoot her?”

“Safety was off.”

“And he tried to gut her with that blade.”

“Yeah.” Gordo releases a heavy breath. “Yeah, he did.” He shakes his head. “Andro’s been gettin’ worse. He had no right to do any of that. It’s downright underminin’ you.”

I grunt. “Kid’s become a fuckin’ bloody hemorrhoid.”

My friend lets out a choked laugh. “So true, boss. So damn true.” A pause lingers. “She knew he was gonna kill ’er, ’cause she fought him hard.”

He tosses another glance around us before centerin’ his attention on me, his voice more muted. “She seemed to know exactly where to apply pressure to get his hand to fold. But it ain’t her fault he did that. She was fightin’ for her life.”

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