Page 90 of The Woman in the Warehouse

It was the wee hours of the morning when I finally had Anthony sitting on my couch in the living room. The room had started to get cast in shades of yellow and orange as Salvatore laid out a small pharmacy across the coffee table.

“Antibiotics. Three times a day. They’re heavy-ass doses. Take ‘em with food,” he said, pointing to one bottle. “Pain meds. Self-explanatory,” he went on. Then he shook the third bottle. “Iron. Build that blood back up. I will be back to check on you every day,” he said as he zipped his bag back up.

“Thanks, Sal,” Anthony said. “I really appreciate you coming all that way. Apologize to Whitney for me.

With that, Salvatore said his goodbyes.

It had been an absolutely insane day.

And even riding back to the city with Salvatore hadn’t been the end of it.

I’d needed to call Keith, asking him to please take temporary care of Fury for me. An opportunity he’d jumped on, agreeing to meet up with a man named Brio to pick her up. And we’d needed to arrange to get the row house emptied out of my inventory, and have it stored back in my warehouse.

Then, of course, I’d needed to call and calm down my mom, assure her I was okay, promise to fill her in on everything as soon as I’d gotten some rest.

I thought Ant and I might finally have a few minutes of tranquility to just unwind.

But, not two minutes after Salvatore left, there was a frantic banging on the condo door, making Anthony try to shoot up, then break off on a fit of curses.

“Stay,” I demanded, reaching for one of my guns, and going to the door myself.

I checked the peephole.

Only to find Anthony’s brother, Emilio, waiting there, shuffling his feet, glancing around frantically.

I guess the word had gotten out.

I slid the locks and pulled them open.

Emilio looked ready to rush in, shouldering me out of the way if necessary, but his gaze landed on me.

“Christ,” he hissed.

“I’m fine,” I insisted for what felt like the millionth time.

I mean, sure, I’d been beaten up.

But Anthony was shot.

I didn’t understand all the fuss about my face.

“He’s okay,” I said, moving out of the way to let him inside.

Emilio’s gaze went to my gun for a split second before he found his brother on the couch, still dressed in his torn and bloodstained clothes, looking pale from the blood loss, and a little slumped from the combination of the pain and alcohol.

“Jesus,” he said, rushing toward Anthony. “Why the fuck did I hear about this from Venezio?” he asked, yanking Ant’s shirt open to look at the wound himself.

Salvatore had opted to leave the entry hole in the back open and covered in gauze, but had stitched up the exit wound because he thought the skin was too tattered to close itself back up again.

“Was a little busy getting shot then poked and prodded,” Anthony said, but his tone was apologetic.

But he hadn’t been too busy to pick up his phone and call my mother, to tell her I was okay.

That warm, squeezing sensation started in my chest again, and I found myself reaching for the bullet in my pocket, rubbing my thumb across it like a worry stone.

I moved away from the men, letting them have their privacy as I went into my bedroom, grabbing a change of clothes, then making my way into the bathroom.

I turned on the water to almost scalding, then stepped inside of the spray, letting it drown out the sounds of my cries as the whole of what had happened in the course of the past day crashed down on me at once.

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