Page 10 of His Deadly Lies

“Where are you?”

“Down the street from a Starbucks about two miles from Uncle Henry’s club.” Knowing I might need to stay on the line, I set the phone down, focusing on my breathing. In for five and out for five.

After one round, I tear at the skirt of the dress until the threads give and the seams part. We’ve got to do something to stop the bleeding.

“Hold on,” I tell Rafel again. My knees scrape against the cement, but at least my hands are no longer shaking. Moving in quick, practiced moves, I wrap the fabric around the wound and tie it off tight.

Rafel’s groans have shifted into silence.

Which is never a good sign.

Each moment is measured by an irregular heartbeat, the pulse visible at the side of his neck uneven and sluggish. There’s no way I can drag Rafel into the car. Moving him…is a bad idea. Especially on my own.

The call has disconnected, Paolo gone.

I press down on the wound, counting heartbeats and seconds. None of it does any good, but he’s still breathing. He’s still here.

It doesn’t take long before two black cars pull up on either side of mine, keeping anyone else from driving past by blocking the road. A group of my father’s men erupt from the interiors and head over to take hold of Rafel, two of them dragging me in the opposite direction.

They’ve surely been told to keep me a priority.

I shake my head, the corners of my eyes burning with acid. “Take him to the hospital, please. He’s been shot in the shoulder, and I’m not sure if there’s an exit wound.”

At least I sound calm.

Until two of them turn to me with their arms outstretched, and the sliver of cold in my chest starts to migrate outward.

“I’m fine,” I argue automatically, blinking at them. “But I’d like to go with him.”

They bundle Rafel into the back of the car and out of sight.

Ignored, the two guards lift me to my feet, but my knee won’t hold my weight, buckling the moment I try to put weight on it. I see it. They see it.

“The danger hasn’t passed, Miss Balestra,” the closest guard murmurs.

“It’s gone,” I assure them. “They left as soon as they shot Rafel.”

“We’re not taking any chances.”

A third car is discreetly parked a little further down the street, half in and half out of an alley between two buildings. Struggling against their hold does no good. Their hands might as well be carved from granite for all their give and warmth.

They take me, struggling the whole way, toward the third car and away from Rafel.

“I’m fine. Let me go.” I elbow the one on the right, and he flinches but refuses to drop his hold. “I don’t need you to manhandle me.”

I also don’t need to see their faces to note where their attention has gone. I’m covered in blood. I feel it, thick and starting to dry, along my neck and chest, my arms. All the way down to my legs. Whatever I say doesn’t matter because I look like a wreck.

Is Rafel going to survive?

“I’m sorry. We’re under orders to get you away from the scene as soon as possible,” the man I elbowed replies.

We’re feet away from the car door when I get my first good look at Goon Number One on the right.

These men are the ones you want to avoid at all costs. The ones you move to the opposite side of the street to get away from because they give you bad vibes. He’s got a hawk nose and a scar down the length of his jaw, only partially hidden by facial hair.

My father’s men, sure, but none I recognize.

A snap of his fingers has two other men moving through the streets, doing their job to clean up the scene before the police arrive.

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