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My brows furrow. No, that isn’t right, I haven’t left. My eyes flick to Leone, and he folds his arms across his chest. My grip on the gun tightens as I awkwardly try to hold the phone, and keep my aim directed on them.
“What do you mean it was already paid for?” I ask. Leone clears his throat and my eyes dart to him; he is the only person who knew I had taken a call earlier and the only person I know with that kind of money. Something tells me it was him, but why?
“Have someone call me when she is out.”
“Fallon!” my dad murmurs. “What are you going to do?” I swallow thickly. I know I’m not leaving here alive.
“I love you, Dad. Tell Emma I love her,” I remind him.
“Wait, Fallen!” I hang up before he can say anything else.
I set the phone on the table and retake my position.
“You paid for the surgery,” I tell him, and he says nothing.
“Why?”
He offers no answers. My arm trembles, the gun wavering in my grasp as I fight to keep it trained on Leone’s impassive face.
Milo shifts, his eyes darting between the gun and my pale face. “You’re losing a lot of blood. I don’t think this is going to end well for you.”
“Shut up,” I hiss, though the edges of my vision are blurring, dark spots dancing before my eyes. I blink rapidly, trying to clear them. Moving to the chair, I drag it closer to the wall and sit down, using the wall and chair to help prop my arm up, which is pointing the gun at Leone.
“Get me a first aid kit!” I snap at Milo. Milo looks at Leone, who nods and then rushes off. When he returns, I sit up straighter, only now realizing I slump slightly.
Milo fumbles with the first aid kit when I realize I must put down one of the guns. “Wrap my arm and shoulder,” I order him, and he again looks at Leone, who nods. Milo steps closer and then kneels while I point the gun directly at his head. “Try anything, and authorities will be scooping your brains from the floor, understood?” I ask. He glares at me but starts wrapping my shoulder.
“And I want your shirt,” I tell him.
“Anything else? Want my boxer shorts, too?” he asks.
“You wear boxer shorts? Are you five years old,” I taunt, and he glares at me but reaches back with one hand, tugging his shirt off. He leaves it in my lap. “Now, get over there with him,” I motion for him to go sit with Leone. He does, and I awkwardly pull the shirt on.
Blood seeps through the bandages wrapped crudely around me—staining the shirt a deep crimson that seems to pulse with each throb of pain coursing through me. My breaths come in shallow gasps, the metallic tang of blood heavy on my tongue.
“Let us help you, Fallon. You’re going to drop dead of blood loss before he calls,” Leone coaxes, standing and taking a slow step forward.
“Stay back!” The shout is weak, but it stops him. Then, the shrill ring of my phone slices through the tension. My heart skips a beat, hammering against my chest. That ringtone—I’d know it anywhere. It is the one I had set for any call from the hospital about Emma.
“Are you going to get that?” Milo asks, nodding toward the vibrating device on the nearby table.
“Answer it, Milo,” I order, my voice barely above a whisper as I struggle to maintain consciousness. “Put it on speaker.”
He hesitates, then moves slowly to the phone. The moment he answers it, it fills the room with a familiar voice relaying news I am both desperate and terrified to hear.
“Ms. McAllister?” A voice cracks through the speaker. “This is Dr. Stevens. I have an update on Emma’s condition.”
“Go on,” I urge, adjusting my grip on the gun.
“Your sister…” The doctor pauses, and everything within me is still.
“Her surgery… it was extensive,” Dr. Stevens’s voice filters through the speaker, clinical yet not devoid of empathy. “But she’s out now. She’s stable.”
“Stable? What does that mean? Is she going to be okay?”
“She will be okay,” Dr. Stevens tells me, and I let out a breath as Milo hangs up.
I can feel the warmth seeping from the wound at my shoulder, more a slow trickle now.
