I take a step toward the bathroom. I need to wash this off. “I’ll be right back,” I say gruffly.
In the bathroom, I scrub the mix of dirt and blood off my hands and roll up my sleeves. Most of the blood on my shirt also belongs to Cleo. I fucked up. As a husband and as a don. I should have been more careful. Guilt surges back into my consciousness. I clench my jaw against it.
No.
I don’t have the luxury of feeling guilty. Feelings have no place in the life of a don. I learned that a long time ago.
My breathing deepens. Slowly, I push all the useless emotions out of my mind until all that remains is a blank canvas. A canvas where I can paint whatever I want.
When I come out, Doc is rummaging in his bag. “She’s got eleven lacerations on her stomach. A few will require stitches and might result in light scarring. She also appears to have a concussion.”
I rewind what happened in the dining room inside my head. Now that I’ve calmed down, it’s easy, like watching a movie. “She fell hard to the ground at one point. When I first heard the shots, I acted on instinct and pulled her down.”
Doc takes out a syringe. “Well, you probably saved both of your lives by doing that. I’m confident Cleo will make a full recovery.”
The tension in my shoulders eases. “Good.”
He sits back down on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to get the glass out and clean your wounds.”
Cleo presses back against her pillow. “What’s that?”
“Just a local anesthetic.”
She swallows. “I don’t like needles.”
“If I don’t numb you, it’ll hurt a lot more.”
She looks at me like she’s hoping I’ll tell Doc not to inject her. I can’t do that. He needs to treat her.
“You’ll be fine. It’s just a few shots,” I say.
My dismissive remark doesn’t land well. Hurt flashes in her eyes, but then it’s gone. Her gaze shutters. A prolonged silence fills the room, and I feel like the shittiest husband in the world.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Doc clears his throat. “Maybe it would help if you sat beside Cleo.”
I clench my jaw. Of course. She needs to be comforted. I can do that. It’s my duty, isn’t it? I walk around the bed, climb in on the other side, and wrap my arm around her shoulders. She stiffens for a moment before she relaxes into my touch.
“Ready?” Doc asks.
She stares at the syringe. “No.”
I run my thumb over her upper arm. “Don’t look at the needle. Look at me.”
She huffs a breath before she obeys. Our eyes lock. She’s so close that I can count her freckles. She looks tired and worn out, but she’s still fucking stunning.
My wife.
My gaze drops to her lips. The doctor is saying something, but I can’t hear him over the whooshing inside my ears.
Kiss her.
Cleo sucks in a breath. “Ow.”
I tear my gaze away from her face and down to her belly.
“Just one more,” Doc says. “Okay, done. Now, I’ll sew you up.” He pulls out a needle and some medical thread.
When Cleo sees them, her eyes widen. “I’ve never had this done to me before,” she says, sounding panicked. She presses into me. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, ohhhh—”
Doc squeezes one of her wounds shut and pushes the tip of the needle into her skin.
Cleo jerks. “Fuck! That hurt!”
I have to bite back a curse aimed at Doc. My nerves are stretched taut.
“I haven’t even pierced your skin,” the man says.
“I’m pretty sure you did.”
Doc blows out a frustrated breath. “This is going to take a long time if you keep jumping every time I bring the needle close to you.”
Do something. “Do you want me to do it?” I ask.
Slowly, she turns to look at me. “You’ve done this before?”
“Yes. Many times.” Sometimes, I don’t have the luxury of having Doc a fifteen-minute drive away. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve had to stitch myself or Nero up.
I ease my arm from around Cleo and get off the bed. “I’ll take it from here, Doc. It’ll make my wife more comfortable. Why don’t you go downstairs for a bit?”
He nods. “I’ll be back in fifteen to check on how you did.”
I take Doc’s spot and pick up the needle.
Cleo squeezes her eyes shut. “I feel like such a coward.”
“A lot of people are scared of needles.”
“You’re not. You’re not fazed by any of this, are you? You were so steady back at the restaurant.”
Is that what she thinks? I didn’t feel very steady when I saw her lying on the ground covered in her own blood.
I shake off that uncomfortable thought and refocus on the task at hand. “Take a deep breath.”
She scrunches up her face. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not. This will only take a few seconds. Breathe, Cleo. I know you’re strong enough to handle this.”
She darts her hand out and wraps it over my knee before giving me the smallest of nods. “Do it.”
I bring the needle closer and pierce her skin. She winces but keeps breathing deeply like I told her to.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Just keep breathing.”
The pace of her breathing speeds up. Her fingernails dig into my leg, but I don’t show any sign of pain. If she needs to use me as her stress ball, she’s more than welcome to do it.
I work as fast as I can to sew her up. It only takes me about ten minutes before I’m snipping the last thread.
I put everything away on the nightstand. “All done.”
Slowly, she peels her eyes open. “Thanks.”
What is she thanking me for? “I’m the one who got you into this mess.”
She stares at me and swallows. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Don’t blame yourself. I forced your hand by showing up to dinner in that dress. If I hadn’t, we would have been driven by Sandro, and the hitmen probably wouldn’t have attacked if the restaurant had been filled with other patrons.”
I place my hand over hers and lace our fingers together. “I liked that dress.”
Surprise slips into her expression before it morphs into wry amusement. “Admit it, you’re glad it’s ruined.”
“Not at all.” She looked sexy as hell in it. “I’ll buy you a replacement, and next time, you’ll wear it in the privacy of our own home.” I lean closer. “Without anything beneath it.”
Finally, some color returns to her cheeks.
The door opens, and Doc reappears. “How are we doing?”
The simmering tension around us bursts like a balloon. I let go of her hand and stand.
“Take a look.”
He comes over to examine my work and then gives me a pleased nod. “Good. The concussion is my main concern. I’d like to keep an eye on her for the next few days.”
“Keep your phone close. If her condition worsens, I want you on hand.”
“Very well.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.
I drag my fingers through my hair. I need a shower, a strong drink, and a good eight hours of sleep, but for now, I’ll settle on just the first. I unbutton my shirt and toss it in the hamper.