KIERAN
The second Kina's door clicked shut, it got real quiet.
Too quiet.
Just me, the buzz of the old fridge, and the hot, mean pulse of pain chewing through my side like a goddamn animal.
I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling like it was trying to talk me out of passing out.
The bandage she'd wrapped me in earlier, too tight, too rushed, was already soaked through, warm and sticky. I felt it spreading. Every second, it was like my body was making sure I remembered how close I'd been to dying. Still was.
I gritted my teeth, tried to shift upright. Every muscle in my body screamed don't, but I ignored it. I needed a cloth. Something. Anything.
The knock came just as I made it to my feet.
Three soft taps.
"Boss?" A voice followed. Kyle's voice was low, careful, like he wasn't sure who'd answer. "You in there?"
"Took you long enough," I rasped, dragging myself back to the couch before I collapsed like an idiot.
The door opened a second later and Kyle was inside, wide-eyed, fast. "Jesus Christ—what the hell happened?" He rushed over, crouching beside me, hands fluttering like he didn't know where to touch without breaking something. "How'd you even get hit? You never—"
"Shut up," I muttered.
"Good God," came the dry, unimpressed voice of Rocco. "You're leaking all over the furniture."
Behind Kyle, he stepped in, older, sharp-eyed, his coat heavy with the scent of antiseptic and cigarettes.
Rocco.
Didn't need to say much, I could feel it in the way he sized me up, like I was nothing but a case file bundled in blood and bad luck.
"Glad you could join the party, Doc."
He dropped his bag near the couch and crouched next to me, eyes immediately scanning the soaked cloth around my abdomen.
"Lovely," he muttered, taking one look at the dark stain spreading over my side. "You're still bleeding. How long ago did this happen?"
"Night before," I said, jaw tight.
He whistled, moving closer with a practiced eye. "You're lucky you're conscious. Where exactly did you take the hit?"
"Left side," I answered. "Didn't hit anything vital."
"I'll be the judge of that," he said, squatting in front of me, already pulling out gloves and snapping them on with a practiced flick.
Rocco glanced up at me. "I'll need full access to the wound and I can't do it half-assed. Bullet's still inside. You're stable, but barely. I'll need to remove it, flush the wound, stitch you up—you're losing blood fast. We might need to move you. I can't work in this… shoebox."
"No," I said sharply. "We're not moving."
"Kieran—"
"I'm serious. I don't know who's watching the streets. I've got enough holes in me. I'm not asking for a few more just to get in a car."
Rocco frowned. "Here? With what, string and hope? You realize this isn't a controlled environment—This place is barely sanitary. No oxygen. No suction. If the bullet nicked anything serious—"
"You're a doctor who works with people like me," I snapped. "You've done worse. You'll manage."
He sighed like he was already regretting every life choice that led him to this moment, muttering something under his breath in Italian, maybe a prayer, maybe a curse. Then turned to Kyle. "Fine. But I'll need more. Kyle, go back to the car. Grab the portable monitor, the IV kit, the meds case, and the suture pack. Bring the lidocaine and the antiseptic gas. And for the love of God, don't drop anything."
Kyle nodded and rushed out.
The door slammed behind him, leaving just me and Rocco. He exhaled slowly and moved toward me again.
"I'm going to shift you," he warned, reaching carefully under my shoulder and back. "I need to position you so I don't kill you while I dig that thing out."
"Touch me wrong and I will kill you after," I muttered.
"Noted."
He slipped one arm behind my back and started guiding me into a better position on the couch. I grunted through gritted teeth as fire spread through my ribs. Sweat dripped down my neck. My vision swam, but I held it together. Barely.
Rocco muttered to himself as he worked. "Pressure's way too high. Color's pale. Breathing shallow."
"Flattery'll get you nowhere."
He ignored me, carefully starting to peel away the bandage. The towel clung to my skin like a damn leech, sticking to dried and fresh blood. With every layer he removed, I felt the sting of exposed flesh, the air biting at the mess underneath.
Rocco's hands didn't shake. He'd seen worse, I could tell but that didn't mean he was thrilled about what he saw.
"Goddamn," he breathed when the wound came into view. "Bullet's still in there. Tissue's already inflamed. You're lucky it didn't perforate your gut. Very lucky."
I chuckled lightly.
Rocco shot me a look. "It's a miracle you're still breathing at all."
"A miracle," I said, dragging the word out on a laugh that hurt too much.
I huffed another laugh. "Life always underestimates me." I muttered, eyes barely open now. "I'm hard to kill."
He snorted as he pulled out his tools, eyes scanning over my busted-up side again. "That ego might be the only thing keeping you alive."
The door burst open ten minutes later, Kyle panting like he'd just run a marathon. In his arms, plastic bags, metal clinking, the sharp smell of sterilizer already leaking out. Rocco caught them midair as Kyle tossed the kit over.
"Don't touch anything," he barked at Kyle, already spreading tools across the coffee table like it was an ER tray. "I'll need a bowl. Something to collect blood. Towels. Alcohol. Light."
Kyle scrambled like a kicked dog, pulling down a lamp from the hallway and dragging it closer. The living room was small, barely enough space to pace, definitely not enough space to perform minor surgery, but none of us cared.
"This might sting," Rocco muttered, pulling a syringe out and holding it up.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Lidocaine. Local anesthesia. I'd put you under, but unless you want to choke on your own blood without monitoring, this'll have to do."
"Do it."
The needle slid into my skin, sharp, fast, and cold. Within seconds, the searing heat in my side dulled. Not gone, just hazy, like it had been wrapped in cotton and threats.