Page 11 of Seek Him Like Shelter

She was clearly in a little bit of shock.

Even when the doctor was talking to her, her gaze seemed a million miles away.

It wasn’t until I said the words Russian enforcer that she seemed to snap back to the present moment.

Her gaze slid to me, those pretty cornflower blue eyes going wide.

“Oh,” she breathed out, her shoulders slumping.

“Are you involved with them?” I asked, feeling like shit for peppering her with questions right after a traumatic event. But I wanted to get answers out of her before she had a chance to try to formulate a convincing lie to feed me.

“No,” she said, head shaking infinitesimally. “No, but I think my boss is,” she said.

“Your boss,” I repeated. “Who is your boss?”

For a beat, I thought she wasn’t going to tell me.

But then she said something that confirmed a lot of my family’s suspicions about what the Bratva was up to. “Senator Michael Westmoore.”

“Sena—“

“We’re going to get you all patched up,” Dr. Conti said as he came back pushing a small metal rolling tray covered in a bunch of supplies.

If he looked nervous to her, it was because he was.

Our family didn’t have their own medical professional on staff for shit like random shootings that we didn’t want to send us to the hospitals where the cops would get involved. Which meant, most of the time, we were pulling bullets out of each other, and doing some seriously shoddy work on stitches without any local anesthetics.

It was like fate one day when we realized a certain doctor was in debt to our family for almost fifty grand that he was never going to be able to pay back with his bleeding heart job at a clinic in a low-income area.

So, we’d… made him an offer.

Which was a nice way of saying that Renzo leaned on him until he agreed to allow any of us to come into the clinic whenever we needed treatment. Without anything ever ending up on paper or in their systems.

As far as I knew, this was the first time we’d needed to use his services. Hence his anxiety. Maybe he was worried that if he screwed up, it would be his kneecaps we came after.

I stood back, letting the doctor work on the woman, Elizabeth’s, arm as I wrapped my head around what little information she’d given me.

She worked for a senator.

That slimy bastard who had too much filler in his face, tanned himself to leather, and wore hilariously obvious lifts.

And, for some reason, she was the target for assassination, not the senator.

“Okay. You are all fixed up,” Dr. Conti said, snapping off his gloves. “I put in dissolving stitches, so you don’t need to come back to get them removed. You should try to keep them dry for the first day or two. And try to keep them covered in sterile gauze,” he went on, getting little nods from Elizabeth, but it was clear to me that everything was going over her head; she was too overwhelmed for instructions. “After that, you can gently wash them for another day or two. After that, just wash as normal.”

“Okay, thank you,” she said, nodding.

“Does she have to worry about infection?” I asked.

“If she keeps it clean and covered, probably not. But keep an eye for any puffiness or especially any sort of oozing. If you see that, come right back in to see me, and we will go from there.”

“And pain?” I asked when she continued to just sit there, a little zoned out.

“Over-the-counter meds will likely be enough,” Dr. Conti said. “But if you don’t feel that it is,” he rushed to add, eyes going wide, “let me know. Anytime.”

“Okay. Thanks, doctor,” I said, jerking my chin toward the door.

He took the hint and left.

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