Page 60 of Unruly Obsession
“Well, I assumed when you said underworld doctor, you had some inspiration from some TV show.”
I throw my hands in the air. “You’re such an asshole sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Sit.” I point to the barstool. “Do you have a first aid kit here?”
“I told you it’s fine,” he insists, and I pin him with a deadly glare.
“I saidsit.”
The asshole's lips twitch again, but he does as he’s told, pointing to a bottom drawer in the kitchen.
I round the counter to the drawer he indicated. It’s strange. Despite the circumstances, for the first time, I feel like instead of falling into chaos or a nauseating swirl of uncertainty and despair—I’m calm.
Maybe it’s because of the indifference that Lorenzo shows for his wound, or perhaps I’m just so sick of being frightened. So tired of circling around other people's expectations. Tonight, the reality finally hit that I’m not guaranteed tomorrow. This is the second time I've been shot at… and I’m fucking done with not having that power in my own hands.
Lorenzo’s phone buzzes, and he picks up immediately. Whoever is on the line is rapidly speaking in a language I can’t understand, most likely Italian.
“Yes, boss. I’ll update you,” he says as I stop in front of him with the kit.
I don’t know how to accomplish it, but I want to protect him as well.
Ridiculous, considering how self-sufficient he is, even if he’s also reckless at the same time.
“The hounds are searching for him now. They’ll find the fucker who shot at us today, and when they do, I’ll make sure he pays for what he did,” he promises.
“Good” is all I say as I open the kit.
Lorenzo’s eyebrows dip slightly, as if he’s surprised by my response. I cross my arms in front of me.
“It can’t be that surprising, can it? He hurt you. Now, take your shirt off.”
“So bossy tonight.”
“Can you please take this seriously?” I bite back. “Just for once, work with me.”
A slow smirk appears on his expression. “I thought we always worked well together.”
I pin him with another glare, and he actually has the audacity to chuckle. I’m so stunned by the foreign sound that my hands are on my hips as he peels back his suit jacket, then removes his shirt.
“Have you ever stitched up a wound?” he asks, nodding to the kit.
I pause, memories resurfacing of times I had to tend to small wounds my mother endured. But I can't confess that out loud. It's always been our secret.
It’s so fucked-up.
“I had to tend to some of Vince's small cuts when he was a kid. You know, boys being boys. I’m sure I can figure it out.”
“Hmm” is all he says, and I don’t like the way he watches me, as if seeing straight through my lie.
“How are you so calm about this?” I question, wanting to shift the subject. It’s confusing that not only is he calm, but that he almost seems to find the situation amusing.
“I’m anything but. I’m doing everything I can so you don’t see the violence roiling beneath the surface,” he replies.
I stare for a moment at the tattoos scattered over his arms and stomach. Then I inhale a sharp breath when I see the deep red wound across his bicep. Our eyes lock, and that ever-present tension between us flares. His jaw tics, and I can almost sense that we’re both holding back.
Unsaid confessions.
