Page 34 of Brooklyn Bratva

Ivan’s entire body tensed, nostrils flaring and sweat broke out onto his brow. His fist clenched tightly enough to rip the fabric on the arm of the sofa. If it had been my arm he’d been holding onto, I’m pretty sure he would have snapped it.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Just get it out.”

I nodded, but a sense of dread filled me when I looked back to the wound.

There wasn’t an easy way to do this. The tweezers weren’t wide enough to grip around the end of the little metal slug, and the channel of the wound didn’t give me any room to maneuver.

But I couldn’t leave it where it was.

I bit my lip, hesitant to start again.

“Have some more vodka,” I instructed, and Ivan held the bottle to his lips, chugging down so much of the bottle that had I been him, my liver would have given up right then and there, and I’d have died of alcohol poisoning on the spot.

“Ready?”

Ivan nodded. “Ready.”

“Okay. Here goes nothing.”

Tweezers in one hand, I stretched the skin of the wound wide, pressing down to bring the bullet closer to the surface. It was a tricky process, and with each failure, my frustration grew. I was making it worse, digging around in there, and if I didn’t get the damn thing out all the bacteria in there would start to fester.

Every time I got ahold of the slug, it would slip out again when I squeezed hard enough to try to pull it out.

I took a deep breath, clamping the tweezer blades tightly together and trying a new tactic, slipping them down one side of the slug and getting under it to push it out.

Ivan dragged in a tortured shout over his teeth, face red and the tendons in his neck standing out as he tried to hold himself back.

“I know. I know. I’ve nearly got it!”

I couldn’t let this beat me. Ivan was counting on me to do this. There was no other option. I had to come through for him.

Steadying my hand and tightening my grip, I pushed in, twisting them around once I felt the scrape of the bullet and saw it move upwards. I let the tweezers open out, cradling the bullet in between the arms, and I felt my heart beat jump with excitement. This was going to work. I had it!

For the first time, I knew it wasn’t going to slip as I drew the tweezers up towards me and I held my breath as the top of the slug emerged from the center of the wound.

With my other hand, I plucked the offending piece of metal up, and tossed it into the bowl of water I’d used to sterilize everything. The water stained rusty pink as the blood washed off, and I let out a breath I hadn’t consciously been holding.

“Done. It’s out.”

Struggling to catch his breath, Ivan opened his eyes and he nodded. “Knew you could do it.” His lips twitched into a thin smile, but his face was still pale and showing his discomfort. “Now you’ve got to stitch it up.”

I shook my head. “Now I’ve got to clean it out.”

I unscrewed the cap on the bottle of water, and held the wound open, flushing it liberally to dislodge any additional debris the bullet might have left in there as it ripped through. Ivan’s face contorted and he let out a grunt of discomfort. Pink tinged water flowed down his arm, and I saw his throat ripple as he swallowed.

I did my best to soak up the flow with a clean towel.

Ivan’s breathing levelled out and I could see him bracing himself for what was to come next.

I took the bottle of vodka and grimaced in sympathy as I repeated the dousing of his wound. Ivan shouted out at the sting of it and his muscles started to shake, but the sound was short, and he clamped it back down quickly, nostrils flared with the effort of controlling his breathing.

“Stitch me up before I change my mind.”

With nervous hands, I took the suture kit out of its packet. I stared down at a sterile, curved needle and thread, and a small pair of what looked like pliers, which were clearly to ensure I had enough purchase on the needle to pull it through.

“I’ve never been all that good at sewing. Just so you know.”

Ivan’s eyes opened again, and he tilted his head. His good arm reached up and he cupped my face then let his knuckles skim softly over my cheek. “It doesn’t have to be pretty.”

“No. I guess not.”

There was no getting around the fact that this was going to scar. No getting around the fact that I was going to have to push the needle deep enough into his flesh to knit the hole together, and he was going to feel every single stitch. I wasn’t the one who’d shot him, but I was going to be responsible for the mess the healed wound turned into.

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