Page 1 of Twisted Vows

Chapter 1

Emma Lanza

If staring down the barrelof this asshole’s gun was the most terrifying experience of my life, I’d count myself a lucky bitch, but as it stands, today’s just another adrenaline-fueled day in the longest running streak of bad luck in history.

I should stop calling it luck and start calling it fate. Destiny must want me to live in the direct path of danger.

I hate it. This man represents everything I despise with his expensive suit and narcissism, yet I know better than to give in to my anger, so I take a deep breath and let it fester just below the surface of my skin, using the rage as fuel despite my calm demeanor.

“Be a doll and unzip my pants, would you?”

The man may have been a catch in his prime, but with his disheveled hair stiff with gel, blood smeared all over his face, his shirt sleeves shoved up to reveal the faded tattoos on his forearms, and the disgusting glint in his eyes, he’s the ugliest patient I’ve had in a long while.

I’d rather deal with the homeless drunkard who hasn’t showered in a month than go anywhere near this guy, but the gun in his hand and the blood pouring from his wounds limit my choices.

I snap on my gloves and wave Dr. Tyler toward the head of the exam table as I step deeper into the room. The new doctor may be a few years older than I am, but he’s never worked in the emergency department before, and he just earned his license a few weeks ago. Plus, his mannerisms suggest he’s never had a hard day in his life, other than studying and lab work.

“I’m not the doctor, just a nurse,” I say with more snark than I probably should, but this asshole barged in at the end of my eighteen-hour shift, so my patience is already wearing thin.

“Like I give a shit? Take off my pants,puttana.”

Bitterness coats my tongue as he spits the curse word at me. It’s been years since I’ve heard someone other than my sister speak Italian, but if I never hear it again, I’ll die happy. My heart squeezes in my chest as I approach him, but I unfasten his belt and yank down his zipper with the clinical detachment I’ve learned throughout my time as a nurse.

“Lift your hips,” I instruct.

He drops his pistol to the table, props himself up with his hands, and curses when I tug his waistband down to his knees. When he fixes his muzzle to my temple and clicks the hammer back, I take a deep breath and almost choke on his cologne. The heavy scent of coppery blood coats my tongue, making my stomach churn.

“Try to be gentle, bitch. One wrong move—”

“And you’ll bleed out before the cops get here,” I interrupt.

He scowls. I quirk a brow.

“Fucking hell, patch me up already. That goddamnstronzowill pay for this.”

I don’t justify his curse with a response and honestly couldn’t give a shit who he’s talking about. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.

After a quick visual check, I grab a few items from the cabinets and pull the tray closer to the bed.

“Be still. This’ll hurt, but the bullets need to come out,” I say without mentioning the gun still trained on my head.

I don’t want to die. In fact, I desperately want to live. For my sister. My mother. My aunt. Myself.

Every day I’m free is another day I prove my worth beyond being a broodmare or a sex doll.

I lean over his thigh and lower the elongated tweezers toward the worst of his wounds.

He grabs my wrist and snarls, “Numb it first, you worthless whore.”

I glance at Dr. Tyler, who looks ready to piss himself, before meeting the asshole’s glare.

“I don’t have the authorization to—”

The man’s string of curses shouldn’t amuse me, especially in such a dangerous situation, but a warped sense of delight bubbles in my chest.

“Fine, just be quick. I can’t stay long,” he snarls.

Fuck. He’s being hunted. An old Italian man in an expensive suit with gunshot wounds. He’s mafia.

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