Page 82 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Corinne

Pardon my damn French, but if these motherfuckers let Tomas die, I’m going to make every murder he ever committed look like a generous blessing in comparison to the hellfire I will bring down upon this godforsaken warehouse and everyone in it.

Right now, though, saving his life is first and foremost. I’ve never been less qualified to do anything in my life. Fourteen seasons ofGrey’s Anatomyhasn’t made me a surgeon. I have to get him to someone who knows what to do.

Blood is still pouring from the wound on his leg and there’s a hole in his left arm. That one has a clean exit point, but the other one just under his armpit does not, which means there’s a bullet somewhere close to his heart. And he’s unconscious. I’m afraid to move him and afraid not to. Even if I could, which I can’t.

I haven’t heard a gunshot in a couple seconds. But I hear men and I need them before the PTSD kicks in and I crumble.

“I need help!”

No one’s listening and just the act of screaming is exhausting me to the point I can barely breathe past the pain.

“Now, goddammit!”

Finally—fucking finally—one of Tomas’s soldiers hears me. A man, tall and dark, comes over and kneels on the other side of Tomas. He takes one look at all the blood and frowns. I’m woozy and gasping from my own bullet wounds. The one in my thigh feels like someone is twisting a hot fire poker in my hamstring again and again.

But I have to hold on. Tomas needs me. I can’t let go. I can’t let go.

The Russian waves over another man who was busy rounding up the last Italians and traitorous Russians. “Move back, miss.”

He’s going to try to lift Tomas. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that if that bullet is close to his heart and we move him and it shifts, he could die.

“Wait! We need something to keep him lying level.”

Mr. Tall, Dark, And Big Enough to Carry Tomas on One Shoulder And Me On The Other shakes his head. “We don’t have time for that. He’s going to bleed to death.”

I’ve had a hell of a week, I’ve been shot, and no one’s listening to me. So I don’t have the faintest idea where I’m getting this strength and pain tolerance from as I yank the gold-plated gun from the holster under his arm and aim it at him. “And if you move him again, I’ll kill you with your own fucking gun. Now get something to lay him on so we can keep him flat and do it now.”

If he calls my bluff, they aren’t going to have to worry about getting shot. I’ll die. Because Tomas will die. The guy whose gun I’m holding walks to one of the shipping crates but there’s no tool. No way to open it, and Tomas is bleeding to death.

He’s going to die on the floor of a warehouse instead of old and gray in our hypothetical front porch rocking chairs with me beside him.

That can’t happen.

I just found Tommy again.

Nothing else matters but saving him.

Nothing else matters but loving him.

Somehow, the soldier gets a panel off the crate. He and another man carry it over. The four of us tug Tomas onto the wood and they carry him out to an Escalade the panel won’t fit into. Too many seats. My heart is breaking.

“Alright. Lay him on the back seat.” They do as I say, carefully and efficiently. I climb in and hold his hand, bring it to my lips and beg him not to die. I love him. I don’t care if the guys up front—the blond one behind the wheel and Mr. Tall and Dark riding shotgun—know it. I wish I would’ve told Tomas while he was awake to hear it. As we drive, I pray that I get the chance to tell him.

Halfway across the bridge, he squeezes my hand faintly and I think he’s going to wake up, but then his fingers go slack. “How much longer?”

I’ve lived here my entire adult life, been to any number of hospitals because I’m a computer geek who likes to rollerblade and play tennis and hike. But I have no athletic ability and more often than not, I end up in an emergency room. So I should know where the hospital is. Idoknow where the hospital is.

But we’re driving away from downtown. Away from every hospital I know.

When we’re on a highway away from the city, I lean forward. “Where are we going? He’s going to die.” My voice shakes and I’m one left turn away from bursting into tears and shooting one or both of them.

“Those are gunshot wounds. We can’t just show up at Mount Sinai Hospital. Don’t worry. We’re gonna get him taken care of.” The bastard pats my hand like I’m not still hanging onto his gold-plated gun. “We have a place.”

“Is it close?” Clenched teeth. Venomous anger. The metal of the slide pulling a bullet into the chamber. It’s all louder than the four-hundred-twenty horsepower V8. I know enough about cars to know that this one can practically fly despite how Tall and Dark is babying it.

“Two minutes.”

---