Page 16 of Triplets for the Mafia Prince

Nic struggles to remove his shirt, so I reach over to help him unbutton it. His skin is clammy as I open the shirt. I note twoholes, one just over his left hip and the other out the left side of his back. I wonder if it hit anything important. This is where a doctor could be important. But he’s adamant about no doctors, so I’ll have to do.

“It looks like it went through,” I say, relieved I don’t have to poke inside his body looking for a bullet. I open an alcohol wipe.

I press the wipe over one of the holes.

“Motherfucker!” He flinches.

“Sorry. I have to clean it.”

He nods. I clean the wounds and glop on all the antibiotic ointment, thinking if he doesn’t bleed to death, he could die of infection.

I can feel Nic watching me.

"Where'd you learn to be so stubborn?" Nic asks, his voice gruff but lacking its earlier menace.

“Just because a woman stands her ground doesn’t make her stubborn.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across Nic's face. "Fair enough."

As I work, I can feel something changing between us. We're not friends, not by a long shot. Perhaps we’re becoming a team. We’re reluctant partners in whatever mess we've found ourselves in.

“Where’d you learn to be such an asshole?”

He shrugs. “It’s the life, I guess.”

“Is that how you can be bleeding to death and act like it’s nothing?”

He grunts, eyes half-closed. "I've had worse."

I don’t doubt it. Once I have him patched up, I open the water bottle and sniff to make sure it’s not vodka or something. My mom often carried booze in her water bottle. I take a quick taste. It’s warm but it’s water.

“Here, drink this.”

He complies probably because he’s too weak not to. Once he’s had a few sips, I put the water in the cupholder and resume our trip to the cabin.

Next to me, Nic goes quiet and I don’t like it.

“Is Gia your wife?” It occurs to me that I know nothing of Don Gino Nardone’s family.

“Jealous?”

I gape at him, noting his eyes are closed and his head is leaning against the window. I wonder if he’s dreaming. Or maybe being close to death gives him a sense of humor.

“Why would I be jealous?”

“I’m a better catch than my father.”

I grip the steering wheel, annoyed by this conversation. He does realize that I’ve had no choice in all this, right? “If I could choose my catch, it wouldn’t be any of you.”

His head lolls to the left, his eyes opening halfway. I think I see empathy, but he doesn’t say anything.

I continue driving.

“Gia is my sister,” he finally says.

“Because of what happened here, you sent your friend to protect her. That tells me you have an idea of what’s going on.”

“You’re smart as well as beautiful.”

---