Page 40 of Ruined

Luca grunted and went down.

I raised my gun, red bleeding into my vision.

Kill them all.

I fired. One. Two. Three. Each shot rang out like a hammer against steel. Bodies hit the ground. Alexei turned tail, his shadow slipping around the corner. I fired after him, missing.

A low groan clawed my attention back to the alley.

Luca was on the ground, curled onto his side. His fingers clutched at his shirt, blood spreading between them like a dark stain.

“Luca.” I sprinted to his side, dropping to my knees. “Jesus, what were youthinking?”

I ripped his hands away. His button-up shirt was sliced open, dark crimson spreading fast. My palm pressed against the wound, trying to staunch the flow, but the warmth seeped between my fingers. My chest constricted.

Too much blood.

Luca’s head lolled back, his glazed eyes drifting toward the sky.

“Hey. Stay with me.” I leaned over him, my other hand cupping his face, forcing him to look at me. “Luca.Stay with me.”

He groaned. Each shallow gasp tore at me.He can’t fucking die here.

The back door of the restaurant flew open with a bang.

“Dom!” Santino and a few others rushed into the alley. His eyes fell on Luca, and his expression darkened. “What happened?”

“Ambush,” I bit out. “One of them got away.”

Santino barked orders, and men scattered into action. He dropped beside me, grabbing Luca’s arm.

Luca groaned as we hauled him upright, his weight sagging between us like dead weight. I swore under my breath, sheer panic squeezing my ribs.

“Hang on, Luca.Hang the fuck on.”

We stumbled toward the street, carrying him. The roar of a car engine grew louder, headlights slicing through the dark. A black sedan screeched to a halt at the curb, the back door flying open.

Santino shoved Luca inside. I climbed in after him, cradling his head in my lap. My hand ran through his hair, trying to soothe him as much as I was trying to steady myself.

Blood smeared across the leather seats. His breathing came in ragged bursts, each one shorter than the last. He was too pale. Too still.

His lashes fluttered, but his lips didn’t move.

I couldn’t breathe.

The car shot forward, tires screeching as it peeled out into the street. I couldn’t tear my gaze from him. I kept my fingers in his hair, trying to block out the sick terror bubbling up inside me.

Don’t you dare fucking die on me, Luca.

“Four to six weeks, and he’ll be back on his feet, good as new. Just keep the wound clean, no heavy lifting, no stress.”

I barely registered the doctor’s words. His blood still stained my hands, dried in thin lines along my fingers. Luca lay on the bed, breathing steadily.

The doctor snapped his bag shut, oblivious to my pounding headache.

Four to six weeks—just enough time to pretend like he hadn’t almost bled out in my arms.

“Thanks, Doc,” Santino muttered.