Page 112 of Arranged Control
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.” He grins, showing bloody teeth. “Shot her. In the leg. Fucking missed. But she’s hurt.”
“Come on, I have to get you out of here.” I check the wound. There’s a deep stab in the right side of his chest, which is curious. If Molchanie wanted him dead, she should’ve gone through his heart.
I don’t think he’s going to bleed out this second, but his lung is definitely punctured.
He needs a hospital and surgery soon or he’s going to die.
I take his weight on my shoulders and heave him up. He groans in pain. More blood leaks down his chest. “Don’t pass out,” I tell him as we hobble to the door. I nearly slip in the blood as I stomp through it, dragging Taras along behind me.
“Bitch… knew… we were… coming.” He wheezes as he talks.
“Save your breath.”
“The bitch… fucking… knew…” His head lolls.
“Taras!” I curse as I get him down the steps. The bastard is heavy as hell. I get through the front door and shout out to Alina in the car, a part of me afraid she’s not going to be there.
But my wife leaps out of the passenger side door. “Is that Taras?!”
“Open the back seat!”
She does as she’s told. I drag Taras and shove him into the back. He groans, half awake and half unconscious. Alina gets in with him, doing her best to stem the bleeding.
I take a beat when I’m behind the wheel. “If I take him to the nearest hospital, there are going to be questions. I don’t know if we have much influence up here in the Bronx.”
“But he could die if we go down to Brooklyn.”
I nod slowly, meeting her eye grimly. “What’s your call?”
The color drains from her face. There’s no good choice here. She looks down at her brother. His eyes are unfocused and he’s making shallow grunting noises.
“Save him. We’ll come up with a story on the way.”
“Let’s go then. Hold on tight.”
I put the car in gear and slam down on the gas.
Chapter 38
Alina
Papa stares at Taras’s unmoving body. Tears slowly roll down his cheeks. He looks broken, like someone took his spirit and crushed it under their boots.
We’ve been like this for nearly an hour and he hasn’t said a word.
Sometimes he takes Taras’s hand. Mostly he sits and stares. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but it can’t be good.
I hope the guilt is killing him.
Seamus is out in the hall dealing with the police. I don’t know what we would’ve done without him. The second we reached the hospital, he was already on the phone with his family, passing along word of what was going on. They reached out to their contacts and several lawyers showed up within the hour. The doctors had questions and the detectives didn’t seem happy, but between the Whelans and my father’s intervention, it doesn’t look like anything will happen legally.
Our story was simple: Taras stabbed himself doing drywall work in an old house.
“I can’t believe she’d do this,” Papa whispers, staring at his son. He barely says it out loud, but in the silence of the past hour, it sounds like a scream.
I stare at him, not sure what to say. Did he really expect anything different? All this time, he knew his crazy ex-wife was out there, murdering people for money, and now she’s back. Did he really think she wouldn’t hurt anyone he cared about?
