Chapter 6 - Blood on the Counterpane
The ride back to the estate was a blur of flashing crimson taillights and Marcus barking medical coordinates into his encrypted phone. In the back seat, Amelia pressed a wad of emergency gauze into Damen's lower abdomen with all her strength, her small hands slick with his blood.
""Keep your eyes on me,"" she ordered, her voice trembling but fierce, tears carving tracks through the dust on her cheeks. ""Do not close your eyes, Damen Blackwood! You dragged me into this war, you don't get to pass out and leave me alone with these lunatics!""
Damen leaned his head back against the leather seat, his face ashen, yet his fingers feebly hooked around her wrist, refusing to let go. ""Still yelling at me... like I'm a bad customer,"" he rasped, coughing up a dry, painful breath.
""You're the worst customer I've ever had,"" she sobbed, pressing harder against the wound. ""You leave twenty-dollar tips with your stupid phone number and you get shot! Stay awake!""
By the time the SUV screeched into the underground garage, a private trauma surgeon and two nurses in scrubs were waiting with a gurney. They cut away his fine tailored clothes, barking medical terms Amelia couldn't comprehend. As they wheeled him toward the basement surgical suite, Damen's grip finally slipped from her hand. Amelia stood in the harsh fluorescent light of the garage, her clothes ruined, her hands stained with the blood of Chicago's most feared criminal.
Marcus stepped up beside her, draping a heavy wool blanket over her shaking shoulders. ""He's stubborn as a mule, Miss Hart. The bullet went through the side. Missed the liver by an inch. He’ll make it.""
""Why did he come to my shop, Marcus?"" she asked, her voice hollow, staring at her bloodstained palms. ""Really. A man like that could have anything in this city. Why come back fourteen days in a row for five-dollar coffee?""
Marcus looked down at the floor, his weathered face softening. ""Six years ago, his older brother was murdered by the Moretti family. Damen took over the Blackwood seat that same night. He had to kill three of his own cousins to keep this city from tearing itself apart in a turf war. For six years, nobody has ever looked at him without wanting something—money, protection, blood. But you..."" Marcus paused, meeting her eyes. ""You looked at his window, saw yourself, and smiled. And when he walked in, you treated him like a human being who was just having a bad morning. He forgot what that felt like.""
For three agonizing hours, Amelia waited in the dark wood-paneled library adjacent to the medical wing. She refused to shower. She refused to eat. She sat with her knees drawn up on the leather sofa, watching the snow bury the garden statues outside.
At four in the morning, the doctor emerged, stripping off his surgical cap. ""He's awake. He's refusing painkillers until he sees you.""
Amelia didn't wait. She pushed past the doctor into the recovery room. The room smelled of antiseptic and ozone. Damen lay propped against white pillows, bandages tightly strapped across his torso, an IV line taped to the back of his hand. His skin was pale, but when he saw her appear in the doorway, the harsh tension around his eyes visibly melted.
She walked slowly to the edge of the bed. Her anger was gone, replaced by a deep, aching ache that terrified her more than any gunfight.
""You're an idiot,"" she whispered, her lip quivering.
""Probably,"" Damen said, his voice raw. He reached out with an IV-tethered hand, his fingers curling gently around hers. ""Did Moretti touch you?""
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""No. Thanks to you."" She sat down carefully on the edge of the mattress, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for forty-eight hours. ""He's still out there, isn't he? He's not going to stop.""
Damen's jaw hardened into cold steel. ""He made it personal the second he put a target on your back. Tomorrow, the Moretti family ceases to exist in this city.""
