Chapter 8 - The Price of Blood
I threw open the iron bolt and pushed the trapdoor upward.
Alexander was slumped on the floor beside the opening, propped up against the splintered counter. His gun lay empty beside him. His coat was drenched in crimson, and his face was as pale as porcelain. Around him, the ruined shop was littered with spent shell casings and shattered glass, but the threats had been eliminated. Outside, the sirens of local law enforcement were finally growing loud.
""Alexander!"" I cried out, hauling myself out of the cellar and dropping to my knees beside him.
I pressed my hands against his abdomen where the deepest bullet wound was bleeding freely. He winced, his hand weakly coming up to cover mine. Even covered in blood, his touch was impossibly gentle.
""You're okay..."" he breathed, a faint, bloody smile touching his lips as he looked at my face. ""You and the baby... you're not hurt.""
""You idiot! Why didn't you hide?!"" I sobbed, tears splashing onto his cheek. ""Why did you fight them alone?!""
""Because... if they got past me... they would have found that cellar,"" he murmured, his eyelids fluttering as shock began to take hold. ""I couldn't let them touch you. I failed you in Chicago, Claire. I let people disrespect you. I let Sophia hurt you. I swore... I'd never let anyone hurt you again.""
""Stop talking! Save your strength!"" I turned toward the street, screaming at the top of my lungs: ""MARCO! WE NEED A MEDIC! SOMEBODY HELP HIM!""
Marco and three surviving security men rushed through the shattered front door, their faces blackened with soot. Behind them, two civilian ambulances screeched to a halt outside the shop.
As the paramedics burst in with a gurney, Alexander’s grip on my fingers tightened with surprising strength. He refused to let go, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with desperate clarity.
""Claire... don't leave,"" he whispered, coughing weakly. ""Even if you hate me... even if you never take me back... let me be near enough to protect you both. Don't disappear again. Please.""
""I won't leave,"" I promised through my tears, clutching his cold hand with both of mine. ""Just stay alive, Alexander. Hear me? Stay alive!""
They loaded him onto the stretcher, pumping emergency fluids into his veins as they rushed him out to the ambulance. I climbed into the back beside him, holding his hand all the way to the regional trauma center in Bangor.
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During the frantic two-hour surgery, I sat in the sterile hospital waiting room, staring at my blood-stained hands. Marco stood guard outside the corridor, his face grim.
It was during those agonizing hours of waiting that I realized a painful truth. Alexander Moretti was deeply flawed, ruthless, and had made unforgivable mistakes. But when death came knocking, he hadn't hesitated for a single heartbeat to use his own flesh and bone as a human shield for me and our unborn daughter.
