Page 45 of Rosetti Family New York
I jerk back. “Why not?” I demand, frustration edging my voice. Carmela’s reaction has me second-guessing, uneasy, wondering if she knows something I don’t. She looks at me with wide eyes, like I’m the one who should know better.
“Because,” she says, like the word should be enough to protect me. “Because of Leonardo’s rule.”
I stare at her, incredulous. “His rule?”
“No touching other men, Eleanor.” She’s as emphatic as I’ve ever seen her, and her voice quavers as she glances at the man, then back at me. She’s not worried about him; she’s worried about what Leonardo will do.
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Carmela.” My voice is a tight coil of irritation. “He might die if I don’t treat him.”
Carmela doesn’t get it. She doesn’t know what it’s like to grow up with your father acting like you’re only good for smiling and drinking tea. I know. I know because I’ve been through it. But I’m tired of being handled like glass.
“Hewilldie if Leo catches you with your hands on him,” Carmela shoots back, as if that ends the discussion.
I snap at her to shut up. She may be right, but this man's life is in my hands right now. I can't let him bleed out on this sterile countertop. "Go get the first aid kit," I tell her. "And the whiskey."
Carmela hovers, a scared little bird. She takes a breath, the panic obvious in her voice. "Are you sure about this, Eleanor?"
No, I'm not. "Yes. Go!"
She's quick to run but quicker to come back. Her curls bounce, and her green eyes are wide. She's anxious but still the only help I've got. I rip through the kit, cursing Leonardo and the other brothers for being gone.
"Did the Albanians do this?" I ask the man as he wavers into consciousness.
He nods, then slumps against the counter, passed out.
“Damn,” I hiss.
I glance out the window and see guards flanking the property, one talking into his comms device. They look like they have the property locked down, so at least we’re safe for now. But it would be nice to know how this man got his injury…and where. Are the Albanians just outside, hiding in the trees? They are already racing the Rosettis into the gem trade, and I get the impression they’re happy to play dirty. And bloody.
I don't have time to worry about it, only time to worry about stopping the bleeding. It pulses from his thigh. I grab my best friends—the knife and the whiskey—and don't stop to think before I work.
"He's going to kill him," Carmela repeats. I don’t doubt it. My possessive husband will explode. He’ll freak. He might put his fist through this kid's skull before the bleeding stops.
"We've got to keep him alive first," I say.
I pour whiskey on the leg, just enough that he screams. It's better than unconsciousness. Better than dead. He's even younger than I thought. Barely older than Carmela. Once the wound is cleaned, I press clean dish towels over it, staunching the bleeding.
“Do you know this guy?” I ask Carmela.
She nods. “Marco.”
I place a hand on the man’s cheek. “Stay with me, Marco. You’re doing well.” I turn to Carmela. “Keep him calm. And awake.” Then I turn my attention back to the leg.
Carmela stares at the towels, and her eyes widen. "Eleanor," she says. It's all she has to say. I see what she sees. Blood. So much that I may drown in it.
I'm in over my head.
We are screaming at the same time, screaming for someone, anyone, when Leonardo charges in. "Eleanor, what the fuck?" His eyes are on me, and they burn with rage. With fire. With accusation.
He crosses the kitchen in moments, looks at me, looks at the bleeding man, back at me.
“Why are you touching Marco?” His voice is deadly calm.
"I'm saving his life."
“You’re breaking a rule.”
“To stop him from dying!” Now I’m the angry one, my voice developing a hard edge. “For pity’s sake, Leonardo, I wasn’t sleeping with the guy. I was stopping him from bleeding to death.”
