Page 8 of Corso DeLuca

Corso is smart, and I’ve said too much. Like a canceled vacation, he doesn’t need my excess baggage. That’s what the gun range is for.

Don’t show your underbelly, NuCalla. I fall back on my best defense, given there’s nowhere for me to go, my mouth. “Do I get my one phone call?”

A man like Corso DeLuca will exploit my every weakness. The faster I get patched up, the sooner I can finish the job.

“Hell no. You’re no longer in America. I’m the scales of justice here.”

With a grunt, I sit up, strip away my jacket, vest, and blouse. My vision dims from the pain, but he won’t have the satisfaction of seeing my tears. I’m in my plain black bra, and my breasts are heavy pendulums as I tug one bloody bra strap down my arm. I study the jagged edge of my blood-crusted wound. It’s in the fleshy trifecta where the armpit, shoulder and breast meet. “It’s a through and through wound.”

Something other than irritation occupies his features for a fleeing moment before the command and control re-emerges.

“You’ve lost too much blood. You need IV fluids.”

Almost robotic in his movements, I watch a stiff-lipped Corso apply a surgical mask and gloves, those dark eyes communicating all business. Should I be offended that he’s not ogling my ta-tas? It’s a rare day when I have the 44DDs on display.

“The entry and exit wounds look good,” he says more to himself than to me. “I’ll use the saline to flush any particles from the bullet’s track through the wound.”

On his approach, that’s when it hits me. “Hold up, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

“Huh, I didn’t take you for a fan of Robert Louis Stevenson 19th century Victorian literature.”

I can’t stop the gasp that escapes at the probability Corso DeLuca knows the author of canonical fiction.

“Surprised?” He smirks.

“Yes, admits the Accounting and English major.” Though I failed to do squat with the latter degree. The weekly readings fed my book addiction. Growing up with a certified public accountant, forensic accounting seemed to be an easy fit. After Josie went missing, I tried to follow Mattia’s money trail. I still am.

“I’m full of them.” Mirth lit his eyes, softening the contours of his face. I can see his smirk behind the mask. Like his features, my sharp edge towards him softens. That pisses me off. He can’t be handsome, smart, and good, damn it. I remind myself, he’s an evil criminal. A crafty one who somehow sucked my Greg into the cesspool with him.

I narrow my gaze on my target. “Thanks for the warning. Where’s the licensed medical professional?”

“You’re looking at him.”

I give him my best you’ve got to be joking face. He’s unphased. Does anything rock Corso DeLuca’s boat? From babies, to bullets, bloodshed, and bad patients with fresh wounds, he’s unflappable.

“DeLucas aren’t in the business of saving FBI pain in the asses. Now, any allergies or medications?”

“Why are you helping me?”

When he doesn’t answer, I relent to his bootlegged medical expertise. And there’s the rub. What’s the connection between Greg and Corso, two men on the opposite side of the law? The more I observe my reluctant caregiver, I notice things best left ignored… things that attracted me to Greg. I shouldn’t ask, but I know I won’t rest until I understand my hero’s link to Corso. Could I have spent five years of my life loving a man who lied to me about who he really was?

“No allergies, drugs, or otherwise. Oral contraception.” The skin around his eyes tightens as if I’ve said something foul.

“What?”

“Gregorio’s gone. You fucking another alphabet?”

I clench the fingers on my right hand, balling them into a fist. “Oh, you are such an asshole.”

“Your answer,” he prompts like it’s his right. My relationship with Greg never evolved to a connection where we could comfortably discuss children. We were our best selves at work. Our homelife, if not passionate, it provided a sense of comfort, family. And occasionally, we had sex. Of which is none of Corso DeLuca’s business.

Slamming my fist on the forgiving mattress, I screech. “No. My reproductive choices aren’t dependent on dick, Corso.”

Like I knew he would, Corso doesn’t hesitate in his approval of my answer.

“Good.”

For whom, I wonder? With the know-how of a practicing professional, he drapes my exposed skin, isolating the bullet entry point. Towels are layered behind my back. There’s a quiet confidence as he flushes my wound with saline syringes.