Page 45 of Unhinged Little Angel

Salvatore’s eyes fill with the exact kind of danger I was hoping for when I decided marrying him was the only way to protect myself from Don. He swings his attention back towards Antonio.

“What part of ‘guard him’ don’t you understand?” He cocks his gun. “And then you have the fucking balls to lie about my husband just to top off your fucking incompetence. Give me one good reason I should let you take one more fucking breath.”

He believes me. No hesitation, no need to think about it, he believes my version, no questions asked. My heart pounds so hard I can barely catch my breath, and for a few seconds all of the pain in my body is replaced with the overwhelming urge to kiss him again.

“Don’t kill him,” I gasp. I’m still not sure if he had anything to do with my attack, but I don’t want his blood on my hands just because he’s a condescending prick.

Sal’s jaw ticks and he lowers the gun, but only a few inches. A resounding pop rings in my ears. Antonio’s face contorts and he stumbles back. The smell of hot metal and blood mixed with the churning adrenaline in my stomach makes bile rise in my throat.

“You fucking shot me,” Antonio shouts, pressing his hand to his thigh.

“Thank Dante that you’re still breathing,” Salvatore says coolly.

Antonio’s face turns bright red for a second before flushing to an unnaturally pale color.

“You heard the man.” I let a savage, toothy smile spread over my face. “Thank me.”

He makes an indignant sound in his throat, but then his eyes land on Salvatore’s pistol again, his finger still hovering over the trigger. He swallows hard.

“Thank you, Dante,” he says through clenched teeth.

Salvatore wrinkles his nose. “You’re bleeding all over the floor.”

The buzzer sounds from the hallway, muffled by the ringing still reverberating in my ears.

“That must be Biaggio. Wait here.” He tucks his gun away and strides out of the room, leaving Antonio and me alone.

“If you’re working with Don, you should know that he has a way of fucking everyone else over to save himself. If you had anything to do with what happened today, Salvatore will find out, and nothing will stop him from putting the next bullet right between your eyes.” I keep my voice low enough that Salvatore won’t overhear me.

“You think you’re smart?” he scoffs, still surprisingly cocky for a man bent over with both hands covered in his own blood.

“Smarter than you,” I mutter. Not the best comeback I’ve ever managed, but at least I got the last word in before two pairs of footsteps announce Salvatore’s return, this time with Doctor Biaggio in tow.

Sal tosses a kitchen rag to Antonio. It flutters to the floor at his feet, and he staggers to grab it, wadding it up in his bloody hands and pressing it to his wounded thigh.

“I don’t need a whole damn puddle of blood to clean up in my living room. Go to the bathroom.” He jerks his chin towards the guest bathroom.

Antonio hobbles away, and the doctor makes a move to follow him. Salvatore catches his arm and shakes his head.

“I need you to check on Dante first. He had a dislocated shoulder that he set himself, a number of scrapes and bruises, and possibly a burn.”

“You realize there’s a major artery in the thigh and Tonio might bleed out in your bathroom?” Doctor Biaggio asks in a conversational tone. Does he work in the ER and he’s so used to life-or-death situations that they don’t even faze him, or hashe just been working for the Morettis that long? He doesn’t look much older than Salvatore, and the same hazel eyes and jawline make me think he must be blood family, not just crime family.

“If all Dante had was a hangnail, I’d still insist you treat him first.” Sal squeezes the doctor’s shoulder and waves for me to sit down on the couch.

Biaggio sighs. “Fine, but I don’t do body removal.”

“Understood,” Salvatore assures him.

The doctor comes around the couch with a leather bag in his hand. He perches himself on the coffee table right in front of me and sets his bag down. He looks perfectly at ease, like he’s been here a hundred times patching Salvatore up.

“I told him I’m fine. All I need is a couple of ice packs and some painkillers,” I grumble.

Biaggio gives me a soft smile and reaches into his bag, pulling out one of those lights doctors love to blind you with.

“He’s your husband, it’s his job to fuss over you. Now, keep your head still and follow the light. I’m assessing for signs of a concussion.”

Salvatore hovers right behind me. It should be unnerving to feel his looming presence, but it’s strangely comforting.

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