Page 33 of High Stakes

“Where do you want to sleep then?” he asks, and I swallow, trying to figure out what he means when I see Milo out of my peripheral, leaning against the wall in the hall.

“What do you mean?” I ask him, worried about answering wrong. Leone watches me for a second.

“Where do you want to sleep if not in the basement? There are plenty of rooms, Fallon,” he states. I want to tell him I’d rather sleep outside than be in the house with him, but remembering Milo’s words, I also know that would be a mistake.

“In our room,” I answer. He nods once and continues walking up the steps. I let out a breath and glance at Milo, who has a silly smirk on his face. I want to tell him to shut up, but I don’t. Instead, I jog up the steps to catch up to Leone.

He leads me through the corridors, the plush carpeting muffling our footfalls. I glance back long enough to see Milo disappear down another hallway.

Finally, Leone halts at a massive pair of double doors. He pushes them open and ushers me inside with a sweep of his uninjured arm. Suddenly, I am too aware of Leone’s presence behind me, I turn around just as he unbuttons his shirt, revealing a sculpted torso beneath. He shrugs off his shirt and tosses it on a nearby chair. I watch him walk bare-chested toward the adjoining bathroom.

Still apprehensive about being in this room alone with him, I make my way over to see what he’s doing. The sight that greets me makes my stomach churn. Leone is hunched over the sink while trying to dig a bullet out of his shoulder with a pair of tweezers.

Horror strikes me mute as I watch him work mercilessly on his wound. “How are you not in pain?” I force myself to ask, unable to tear my gaze away from the wound.

He smirks at my question, obviously finding amusement in my horrified expression. He reaches for a box of opioids - Hydromorphone - and tosses it toward me without breaking from his gruesome task. “You think I’m not?” He grunts out.

Casting a glance toward the bedroom, hearing the door open. Milo steps in, closes the door, and swiftly locks it. Returning my attention to Leone.

“Maybe you should go to a hospital?” I offer, and he stares at me, and I feel like an idiot at my suggestion. Moving closer, I pluck the tweezers from his fingers, slipping between him and the sink basin. I sit on the edge, and Leone raises an eyebrow at me.

“Milo will do it if I can’t get it out,” Leone tells me. Leaning forward, I look at the wound.

“And miss my chance to make you squirm?” I quip.

“Funny,” he murmurs, his voice strained as he grips the edge of the sink. His knuckles turn white under the pressure, but I notice him trying to control his breathing, a hint of vulnerability he hardly ever shows.

Leone grits his teeth, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face as he battles the discomfort. From the corner of my eye, I see Milo leaning against the door, watching us, his eyes filled with an unreadable expression. Working carefully, I try not to let my hands tremble as I grip the tweezers. Focusing on his wound, I press down, and Leone sucks in a breath.

I glance up at him only to find him gritting his teeth, but he doesn’t utter a word of complaint. After a few agonizing moments, I managed to dislodge the metal piece. My sigh of relief mingles with Leone’s groan of pain, as I hold up the bullet. My hands tremble slightly, and I fight down the bile rising in my throat. It’s one thing to see Leone get shot; it’s another thing entirely to have the evidence of his mortality so starkly preserved.

“See? Not so bad,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel.

“Good, let’s see how good you are with a needle and thread,” he tells me.

Leone’s words make me gulp, my bravado fading. I glance at Milo, secretly hoping for his aid, but he just watches silently from the doorway. His eyes are unreadable in the dim light, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the way he holds himself.

Swallowing hard, I nod at Leone and look around for a sewing kit while Milo steals Leone’s shower. After rummaging through a drawer on the vanity table, I locate a compact first aid kit with everything I need. Taking a deep breath to steady my trembling hands, I set to work cleaning the wound with some alcohol wipes.

Leone tenses under my touch as I dab at his shoulder but remains uncharacteristically silent. Maybe it’s the stoic acceptance of pain that makes me brave enough to continue. Or perhaps it’s his overwhelming presence that makes it impossible to think of anything but the task at hand.

Suddenly aware of his naked chest and the intimacy of our proximity, my face warms furiously. However, Leone doesn’t seem to notice or care about my embarrassment. The muscles of his bare chest ripple as he braces himself against the sink basin, his expression focused entirely on tolerating the pain.

“I…I need you to keep still,” I say, partly to remind myself to breathe and partly to break the intense silence that has settled around us.

Without waiting for a response from him, I draw out an almost comically large needle from the first aid kit and thread it with clinical precision. Leone watches me quietly through half-lidded eyes, but his gaze feels heavy like lead.

My hands tremble as I position myself again between him and the sink basin. The needle glimmers under the harsh bathroom light as I bite down on my lower lip apprehensively.

“Just focus on anything else,” I tell him.

“I am,” is all he replies, his voice barely a whisper. I feel his hand move to my thigh, offering a small squeeze. His touch is warm and gentle, a stark contrast to the cold brutality he shows the world.

The silence thickens as I press the needlepoint against his skin, pushing it in. Leone’s grip on my thigh tightens, but he doesn’t make a sound. An odd sense of relief washes over me, squashed by the realization my hands are far from steady.

Despite the discomfort and tension etched across his face, Leone stays remarkably still for me. I can’t help but admire his resilience, even in these raw moments of vulnerability. His dark eyes never leave mine, so full of hidden depth and emotion it takes my breath away.

Moments pass in slow motion as I finish stitching up his wound. Satisfied with my handy work, I step back, letting out a shaky breath. “Done,” I breathe out, staring at him with a triumphant smile.

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