Page 86 of This Thing of Ours

With Ricky going at speeds in excess of a hundred on the freeway and God only knew on the city streets, it took them twenty-five minutes to reach the clinic. But each of those minutes felt like hours as Nico watched over Marco. He kept pressure on the wound the whole way, switching out his coat for Tony’s and then Ricky’s when each one had soaked through. He checked Marco’s pulse every few minutes, only slightly relieved when it stayed faint, yet steady. He woke up for a few minutes, but the pain seemed to get the best of him, and after groaning and mumbling something incoherent, he lost consciousness again.

When they arrived. Greene met their car with a stretcher, and after carefully transferring Marco to it, they wheeled him in.

And then it was a waiting game.

Nico paced the hall, wishing for a cigarette for the first time in eight long months—the last time being when Olivia almost died during labor. His mind flashed back, and like that night, he’d been in the back seat of a car covered in blood. Only then it had been Olivia’s.

He willed those dark thoughts from his head, not wanting to go there, and pulled out his phone.

He had a call he was dreading to make.

The pounding onher bedroom door startled Gabby from sleep. She sat up, adrenaline pumping through her veins, causing her heart rate to spike as she called out to whoever was on the other side.

Frankie opened the door and stepped in. She knew right away something was wrong. The lines that usually bracketed his eyes appeared deeper, his jaw tense, and his lips pursed.

He was worried.

Clutching the covers, she asked in a voice thickened with sleep, “What is it?”

He said the one name, in her heart, she knew he would say. “Marco.”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to ask—wasn’t sure she was ready for the answer—but knew she had to. Opening her eyes, she looked at Frankie right in his. “What about Marco?”

“He was shot.”

She licked her dry lips with an even drier tongue and cleared her throat. “Is he dead?” Her brain started screaming.Please God, no. Please God, no. Please God, no.

“No.”

Her whole body deflated, and she took a deep breath, trying to curb the sudden dizziness that overtook her.

“But he is in critical condition. Doc’s operating on him as we speak.”

Her vision grew dark, and she distantly heard Frankie ask if she was all right, before everything then became too bright. Almost blinding. Though the only light source in the room came spilling in from the hall. Something had clicked—as if a switch had been triggered in her brain. All emotion shut down as action replaced it, propelling her out of bed and moving her legs in the direction of her suitcase so she could change her clothes.

Her fight or flight instinct had kicked in. And she was a fighter.

Oh, sure she might be fleeing to Marco, but she was arriving armed for battle. She wouldn’t let him die. Not when he was finally hers.

She stripped off her oversized t-shirt, uncaring that Frankie was in the room, and threw on the first items her fingers encountered—a fuzzy cream sweater and jeans. She scrounged around until she found a pair of socks, sat on the bed to pull them on, then shoved her feet in her boots.

She stood and ran her fingers through her hair. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

The trip backto Vegas was conducted mostly in silence with Gabby only asking Frankie for more details after the call she’d tried making to Nico went to voicemail. She needed answers, damn it, but Frankie didn’t know much more than what he’d already told her. He did inform her that Marco had been shot in the stomach, which sounded a lot worse than if he’d been shot in the leg or shoulder, but better than being hit in the head or heart. Though, in the state she was in and not knowing his current condition—because Nico wouldn’t pick up his damn phone—it was hard to be grateful the hit hadn’t been an automatic killing blow. Dead was dead whether it happened right away or a few hours later.

Her thoughts were as tumultuous as her emotions. And the contents of her stomach weren’t faring much better, twisting and swirling nauseatingly and threatening to make a reappearance. She swallowed down the bile and closed her eyes, praying for good news upon their arrival.

Nestled in thecorner of a south-side industrial park, not far off The Strip, they neared what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, but what Gabby knew in reality disguised a high-tech medical facility, equipped with everything a doctor could need when it came to emergency medicine.

She was opening her car door before Frankie came to a full stop, jumping out and rushing to the glass double doors. They were locked, and she started banging, although no one was in sight. Her blows didn’t make much noise, so out of frustration, she started kicking.

A hand on her shoulder halted her frantic attempts to get attention. “Let me call Nico. Let him know we’re here.”

Hand plastered flat to the glass, Gabby hung her head. “He hasn’t been answering.”

“Then I’ll call one of the other guys. Don’t worry, polpetta, we’ll get you in.”

Little meatball, Nico’s pet name for her, that’s what had her looking up and giving Frankie a small smile. She nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

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