25
Fifteen minutes ago, I was in bed with her.
Now I’m standing in a doorway, gun still warm in my hand, watching Emmaleen collapse alongside Rico’s corpse. Her naked body folds onto the tile, graceful even in this moment of violence. Rico’s blood pools beneath them both, mingling with hers, creating a slick red canvas that doesn’t distinguish between victim and predator.
I’ve seen dead bodies before. I’ve created them. But this?—
“Emmaleen.”
My voice sounds distant, foreign. I stick the gun into my waistband, keeping it close just in case he’s got people here, and cross the room in three strides, dropping to my knees beside her.
Blood pours from the wound at her temple, a steady, relentless flow that soaks into her hair, turning the dark strands black.
“No.” The word escapes without permission. Useless. Pointless. Words always are.
I press my fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. It’s there—rapid, fluttering, but present. She’s alive. For now.
Dom and Ricky burst through the door behind me, weapons drawn. They stop short at the scene, Ricky letting out a low whistle.
“Holy shit, G, is that?—”
“Rico’s dead.” I don’t look up. “Handle it.”
My hands are slick with her blood as I cradle her head, trying to assess the damage. The wound is deep, skull possibly fractured. Head injuries bleed dramatically, but this is beyond dramatic. This is catastrophic.
“What about her?” Dom asks, already moving toward Rico’s body, all business.
“I’ve got her,” I say, the words scraping my throat raw. “Get rid of him. Make it clean. Ricky, you go make sure all his men are gone. If they’re not?—”
But Ricky interrupts me. “Don’t worry, boss. I know what to do.”
“We can dispose of them all at once,” Dom adds, a plan already forming in his head.
I reach for the bed sheet, tearing it free with one hand while keeping pressure on Emmaleen’s wound with the other. The white cotton immediately blooms red when I wrap it around her head, but it’s better than nothing. I wrap the rest of the sheet around her naked body, shielding her from Dom and Ricky’s eyes.
“You need any help?” Ricky asks, hovering nervously as Dom grabs a garbage bag from my kitchen pantry.
“No. I’ll take care of her. You and Dom wipe this place up. No cleaning crew, justus. And make sure you get all stragglers,” I tell him. “Even if they’re glitter girls. Do you understand me?”
Ricky nods. “Hundo percent.”
Dom’s already moving, pulling garbage bags off the roll like they’re tissue paper, snapping each one with practiced efficiency.
I lift Emmaleen into my arms. She’s lighter than she should be, her body limp against my chest. Her face is chalk-whitebeneath the blood, freckles standing out like constellations against snow.
“Where are you taking her? Doc Sacova?” Ricky asks.
“No,” I say, grimacing at the thought of Emmaleen’s life in the hands of a mafia veterinarian. “I’m taking her to the fucking hospital.”
“But G,” Dom says.
I cut him off with a hand. “You do your job, I’ll do mine.”
I carry her out of the pool house towards the Lambo. Her blood is soaking through my shirt now, warm against my skin.
This is going to start a war.
What I did was start a war.