Page 86 of Ruthless Arrangement

“Why’d you do it?” The question emerges unbidden, raw with genuine confusion. “Why save me?”

Lea meets my gaze, and for once there is no calculation in her eyes, no performance, no strategic positioning. Just raw, unfiltered honesty.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I just knew I couldn’t watch you die.”

The confession hangs between us as the SUV speeds toward Alessandro’s estate. My vision narrows, darkness creeping in at the periphery as blood loss and pain take their inevitable toll. The last image I register is Lea’s face above mine as consciousness slips away, determined and afraid, yet somehow still here despite everything she now knows about the reality of my world.And the last thought that follows me into darkness is unexpected, almost foreign in its simplicity: I don’t want her to leave.

CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO

Lea

Blood never comesout from under your fingernails completely. I’ve been scrubbing for ten minutes straight, the water running from pink to clear and back again as I find new crimson crescents to clean.

I killed a man tonight.

The thought surfaces for the hundredth time as I scrub harder, my skin turning raw under the scalding water. It should feel monumental, earth-shattering. Instead, there’s a disturbing practicality to my movements. Soap. Scrub. Rinse. Repeat.

Alessandro’s estate bathroom is all marble and gold fixtures, obscenely luxurious compared to the violence that brought us here. The mirror shows a stranger. My hair is wild, specks of dried blood on my neck that I missed, eyes too wide and bright. I barely recognize myself.

A sharp knock breaks my trance.

“Ms. Song?” A clipped, professional voice. “The doctor requires your assistance.”

I shut off the water, watching the final swirl of diluted red disappear down the drain. My hands are shaking again as I dry them. I’ve been cycling between mechanical efficiency and trembling shock since we arrived twenty minutes ago.

When I open the door, a severe-looking woman in a pressed uniform gestures for me to follow. “Quickly, please.”

We hurry down the hallway to a bedroom that’s been transformed into a makeshift medical station. Nico lies on the bed, pale and still. His shirt has been cut away, revealing the full extent of his injuries. He has a ragged graze along his side where the bullet passed, a deep laceration across his shoulder, and bruising already darkening across his ribs. A gray-haired man in a sweater vest works efficiently, cleaning the wounds.

“Ah, good. Hold this,” he says without looking up, extending a bloodied gauze pad in my direction.

I take it automatically, my brain disconnecting from the horror of the situation and focusing on the immediate task. The doctor, I assume he’s a doctor, though no one has actually said so, doesn’t bother with introductions or explanations. He simply points to where he needs pressure applied, hands me instruments, while giving me clipped instructions.

“Keep that steady. More pressure there. Hand me the suture kit.”

Nico’s eyes are closed, his face unnaturally slack. They’ve given him something for the pain. Without his usual intensity, he looks different. Younger, almost vulnerable. It’s jarring to see him this way after witnessing his ruthless efficiency in the club. After watching him put three bullets into a man without hesitation.

After seeing him nearly die lost in rage over Marco.

The memory makes me shudder. Marco’s body jerking as the bullet struck, the pool of blood spreading beneath him on the concrete floor. The look in Nico’s eyes when he realized his friend was gone. That animal fury that sent him charging forward, abandoning all his careful control.

And then…

I close my eyes, but it only makes the images sharper. Vincent standing over Nico, knife raised. My hands finding Nico’s fallen gun. The unfamiliar weight of it. The recoil shocking up my arms as I fired, the acrid smell of gunpowder sharp in the air. The horrible, wet sound of the second bullet striking Vincent’s throat. The gurgle as he fell.

“Pressure, Ms. Song.” The doctor’s voice snaps me back. “I need steady hands if you’re assisting.”

I refocus, pressing gauze against the wound as he begins stitching. My hands are steady now, surprisingly so. Some part of me has shifted into crisis mode, compartmentalizing the horror to deal with later.

“The bullet graze is superficial,” the doctor explains as he works. “The shoulder laceration is deeper but missed anything vital. Ribs are bruised, possibly cracked. We’ll need X-rays to confirm.”

His movements are precise and practiced. This isn’t his first gunshot wound.I wonder how many times he’s patched up Nico or others in Alessandro’s organization. How many bullets and knife wounds he’s sewn closed without ever filing reports or asking questions.

“You did well,” he says quietly, eyes on his sutures. “Most people freeze in situations like that. Fight, flight, or freeze. Freeze is most common.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to me, about what happened at the club. About me killing someone.

“How do you…” I start.

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