Page 86 of His Passerotta

What do I do?

What the hell do I do?

I press the pillowcase against Maksim’s wound, holding the pressure as firmly as I can hoping I’m doing more good than harm. I’ve never helped someone who was shot before. I’ve seen it once, right on the street when I was a kid. There was some kind of dispute between two guys that turned deadly, and it was terrifying, but I had no role to play. I was just a kid. Saving the man’s life never even occurred to me.

“When was he shot? What… What the fuck happened?”

“Get your girl in check,” Mohawk sneers at Corey. “Better yet, get her out of here.”

Corey grabs me under my arms and hauls me back with me kicking and flailing. “Stop, you’re killing him! You have to stop the bleeding!”

Corey continues to drag me, but before he makes it to the door, one of his friends stops him. “Dude, she’s right. He’s no good to us dead.”

Silence envelops the room as the cockroaches attempt to use their heads for the first time in their lives.

Mohawk stomps to me and takes me by the hair, shoving Corey back when he tries to stop him. He forces me to Maksim despite Corey’s protest, but I don’t fight. For whatever reason, I can’t let Maksim die. I just … can’t. Despite him being more than willing to kill me.

Mohawk throws me at Maksim’s feet. “Fix him.”

Fix him. That’s his genius plan.

What if I don’t know how?

Maksim groans, snapping my wide eyes to his face. He groans again, and I take the rag out of his mouth so he can speak.

He coughs and closes his eyes in pain. “Get a knife,” he grinds out.

A knife?

What?

I stare blankly but decide I don’t have time to question it. His hands are tied behind his back. What’s he going to do, stab me with it between his teeth?

“I need a knife,” I say to Mohawk.

He glares. “Hell n?—”

“Now. If you want him to live, give me a fucking knife.”

He sneers at me a few seconds before relenting and pulling a blade from one of many pockets of his cargo shorts. He tosses it beside me, and I scoop it up, looking to Maksim expectantly.

“Go get some alcohol to pour on it. You have to dig the bullet out.”

My lips part in shock.

“Just fucking do it,” he growls.

Dig the bullet out.

Dig the fucking bullet out.

Oh, Jesus.

I hop to my feet and head for the kitchen, not needing to look far for the liquor. I’m guessing Josh’s grandma is dead because the place reeks of bachelor pad.

I slosh liquor onto the knife, as well as my hands, then rush back to Maksim, kneeling beside him with my eyes on the wound.

Dig the bullet out.

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