Page 30 of Mafia And Maid
Somehow, I manage to nod and turn on shaky knees. In the bathroom, my hands flounder with the box under the sink as I grab it. My feet tangle together, and I nearly trip as I move back into the kitchen to the injured men. Blood is seeping from their arms, and Alessio’s side is leaking crimson.
I’m going to be sick. I can feel it rising higher and higher.
“H-her-” The words won’t come out of my mouth, but I shove the kit into Camillo’s outstretched hand.
“Fuck!” Alessio snarls.
“Don’t be such a wimp.” He laughs, though it’s strained, forced. The tightness of his muscles beneath his black shirt tells me he’s worried. “And don’t move an inch until I get back.”
I stand there in the middle of the kitchen dumbly. My gaze bounces between the two bleeding men and then to the floor. Drops and smears of deep crimson make a path to where they sit. My knees wobble as I clutch the counter before looking down at the unfinished dinner.
Camillo charges back in and shoves a bottle of whiskey into Alessio’s face, earning him a grunt of what I can only assume to be satisfaction or gratitude.
As he gets to work, Alessio hisses again, a string of curses leaving him.
“Stop moving, and it won’t be so bad.”
“You’re goddamn prodding me like cattle.”
“Do you want the bullet to come out or not? I told you it was going to fucking hurt.”
Numbly, I listen to the exchange. This is their normal life.Mynormal life now. The thought is terrifying.
“Stop! Christ, I swear to God and all the goddamn saints if you don’t stop—” Alessio’s words fade into foreign curses and grunts as Camillo continues to poke his side.
“Fine! Fine.” Camillo looks around the room, distraught. His hands rake through his hair, dragging his brother’s blood through the disheveled strands. “Fuck. Okay.”
He meets my gaze, begging for an answer. There’s something there in his eyes, something that breaks my heart and makes me want to move closer. It’s just under the surface of his usual mask—but it’s gone in an instant.
“Come here, Rosa.”
He wants me to do something?
“I need your help.”
“Me?” I squeak.
“Yes. Come here.”
Slowly, I move forward. What’s he going to ask me to do?
“I need you to get the bullets out. I can’t get a good grip.”
I look at the wound oozing, then back to Camillo. My breathing is rushed and harsh, coming in small pants.
“Now, Rosa!” Marco yells as Alessio’s head sways and tips forward. “Before he bleeds out!”
My body snaps forward like my brain isn’t sure what’s going on. I carefully take the forceps from Camillo’s hand. I ignore the way his fingers brush mine and the feeling in my stomach before I grab the pitcher of water.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble repeatedly as I flush the wound with water. My hands wobble and shake as I approach the first of several bullet holes. My fist clenches on my thigh as I try to steady my outstretched hand.
“Here, put them in here,” Camillo orders, tipping the salad out of the bowl I prepared for dinner.
The ping of metal against ceramic echoes, and it takes every ounce of my strength to keep from keeling over and puking right then and there.
Once Alessio is done, I turn toward Marco. I don’t meet his gaze as I gently poke the wounds, unable to keep my hand steady. I don’t want to see what kind of monster is lurking there tonight or what kind of brutal villain I’ll see if I lift my eyes.
“Hurry up,” Marco snarls, his jaw clenched.