“Hi,” she squeaks from behind my shoulder.
Bruno sighs and opens the door wider to reveal his white t-shirt and loose flannel pants— and a few patches of deep red blood staining through the fabric. One on his left thigh, one near his shoulder, and the third— most worryingly— slightly below his ribs.
“Mierda,” Rafaela breathes, letting out a low whistle.
“Oh my god, Bruno, what the hell happened?” I ask, my voice higher-pitched than usual, as it often does when I’m panicked. Bruno leans out the doorway, looking up and down the hall with a slightly suspicious air, then nods for us to come in.
“Come inside before someone sees,” he growls. “You, too, Rafaela.”
We both rush into the apartment, which is exactly as spartan and neat as I would expect from a guy of Bruno’s self-discipline. But I’m a little too distracted by the massive bloodstains peppering his body to pay too much attention to the details of his residence.
He walks gingerly to a stool pulled to the center of his little kitchen area, with an open box of bandage wraps, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a needle and thread sitting on the otherwise pristine granite countertop. My stomach turns when I catch sight of the drops of blood on the white tile floor.
“I was hoping you wouldn’t see me like this,” Bruno says, sounding genuinely downtrodden. “I remember you being squeamish about this kind of thing.”
I can’t even protest. It’s true. I’ve never been good with blood and guts. Hell, I have trouble watching some TV shows involving hospitals because they all make me queasy. Rafaela, however, immediately jumps into medic mode.
“Okay. I know I’m just a head doctor, but I took enough med courses to help,” she says, a look of determination on her face. While I’m feeling woozy, Raf is already scrubbing her hands in the kitchen sink, preparing to do God knows what.
“Neither of you should be getting involved with this,” Bruno protests softly, staring at me with those hard, green eyes. Rafaela is going through the cupboards, looking for something.
“Well, tough luck. Because she’s involved with you, and she’s my best friend, so I’m automatically involved. Plus, it’s like a Hippocratic Oath kind of thing. I may not be a real doctor yet, but I’m still not gonna turn away a guy bleeding out in his kitchen from what looks to be three separate gunshot wounds. Now, where the hell do you keep your rubber gloves? This apartment is spic and span, so I know you’ve got some hidden away somewhere,” Rafaela says matter-of-factly.
A smile twitches momentarily at the corner of Bruno’s mouth. “Hallway closet. Second shelf.”
“Thanks,” she replies, and walks off to find them. When she returns, she tells Bruno to take off his shirt, which he does obediently. Against my better judgement, I take a few steps closer, the breath hitching in my throat as I take in the gore of the situation. Dried blood. Bruising. Nicks and scratches.
The world spins for a moment and I carefully sit down on the tile floor while Rafaela tends to Bruno’s wounds. She gently dabs them clean, then begins the painstaking work of stitching him up. Thankfully, she’s as professional and focused as a true doctor, even under these strange circumstances, and before long she has him as patched up as well as could be expected for this kind of serious injury.
“You’re lucky,” Rafaela says, tossing the rubber gloves into a garbage can. Turning to me, she continues, “It looks really bad, I know. The rib shot and the thigh shot were just really bad grazes. The shoulder wound is the worst, but your guy here managed to wiggle the bullet out on his own before I got here. It’ll all heal. As long as he takes care of himself.”
“Thank you,” I murmur, feeling overwhelmed.
“I could have done this myself,” Bruno says, “but probably not as neatly. So, thank you.”
Rafaela waves off his gratitude. “Just doin’ my job. Now, you really, really do need to take it easy. I’m serious. No crazy acrobatics or bad boy moves or whatever it is you do. Just chill out for awhile. Spend some quality time with your lady. She’s been worried out of her mind all night about you, ya know?”
A flicker of pain crosses Bruno’s face and he locks eyes with me. “I’m sorry, Serena,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to worry you. This—all of this—you shouldn’t have to deal with it. This is my bloody, filthy world. Not yours.”
I stand up and walk over to him, taking his hands in mine. “And you are my world. So, like it or not, I’m here to stay. Don’t push me out again. Please. I’d rather know what’s going on.”
Bruno lifts his good arm to stroke my face. I close my eyes, leaning into his touch.
“I promise. And I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, mia passerotta. But you have to trust me,” he replies. I nod, turning his hand to kiss his open palm.
“Okay! And that’s my cue to leave, I think,” Rafaela says suddenly, reminding us both that she’s still here. My cheeks burn with embarrassment, having gotten caught up in the moment with Bruno.
“Thank you so much again,” I tell her earnestly, walking over to give her a tight hug. I whisper in her ear, “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“It’s all good, amiga. Now, I assume you wanna stay and look after your boy. I’m gonna head home and go to town on that guacamole until Nico gets off work. Just me and Ryan Gosling for a few hours,” she says, winking.
“Sorry our girls’ night got ruined,” I tell her.
“Eh, it’s okay. More guac for me. But you do owe me. Just buy me a drink next time we’re out, and we’re square,” she says good-heartedly. I give her a big grin.
“You got it. Text me when you get home.”
Bruno carefully gets to his feet, fishes a wad of money out of a wallet on the countertop, and hands it to Rafaela. At first, she shakes her head, refusing it.
“Take it. You’ve done me a huge service here. Not to mention taxi fare. It’s the very least I can do,” Bruno insists, and she gives in.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m leaving now. Take it easy. Seriously. I’m pretty good at stitches but you still don’t want to risk them reopening or something.”
I flinch at the thought. Once Rafaela is gone, I rush into Bruno’s arms, laying my head against his powerful chest, careful not to touch his wounds. I look up at him, overwhelmed with feeling.
“How did this happen? What did you do? Who did this to you? Did you go to the cops? Where did this all go down? Are you safe now? Is someone looking for you?” I ask, the words stumbling over themselves in a rush to get out.
Bruno gently strokes my hair, calming me down. “It’s okay. It’s over for now. There’s no need to rehash all this mess—it’s my mess. And besides, you heard Rafaela: we have to relax, right?”
I want to protest, but I think better of it. “Fine. You’ve got to be exhausted.”
Bruno yawns. “I actually am. Nothing like a firefight to knock you right out.”