Page 22

“Fuck!”
The driver is slumped over the wheel. Blood is pouring from a wound in his neck. I have to get out of here or I’m next, so I jump over the seat, push him out the door, and step on the gas.
I have no idea where I’m going, but I don’t care. Anywhere is better than where I am now, so I keep zigzagging the streets until I find myself in a steady stream of traffic. What the fuck just happened? Am I dreaming? Is this a nightmare? Surely, I’ll wake up any second now and find myself safely in my hotel room.
But it’s not to be. I’m racing through the streets of LA, my men are all dead, and I’m bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to my arm. I’ve only just noticed it, actually. The adrenaline is still pumping hard. I know from experience that it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch as soon as the shock wears off.
I have to get the wound treated. It would be a sorry tale if I die of an infection after surviving the attack. I drive until I see the lights of an all night pharmacy up ahead. I park the car.
I don’t want to go to a hospital, as they have to report all gunshots to the cops. I can’t afford that sort of heat. Not now. I’m losing a lot of blood. I can feel myself getting weaker by the minute.
Come on, Dante. Don’t be a pussy. This isn’t your first gunshot wound.
I pull myself together, take a deep breath, and walk into the pharmacy. Thankfully, it’s empty except for a pharmacist behind the counter and an assistant on the floor.
She looks familiar. I know her. Those eyes. I get as far as the first aisle before my legs buckle, and I go down like a sack of potatoes.
The woman rushes up to me and grabs me by the arm. She’s saying something to me. I hear her faintly before I pass out.
“Dante. Oh, Lord.”
Mia! But how?
6
MIA
Dante! How is this even possible? I’m trembling all over as I hold his head in my lap.
“Holy, crap,” George says as he rushes over and sees me cradling the man bleeding all over his shiny pharmacy floors.
“Is he alive? I’ll call the cops,” he says.
“Wait!” I urge him to stay put. “I know him.”
“What? Who is he?”
“He’s Gina's family.”
“Shit! Are you serious?”
"Please don’t call the cops. Help me.”
“Are you nuts? This man’s been shot, Mia. I have to call the police.”
“Please, George. I’ll explain later. I’ll owe you big. Just help me.”
George doesn’t look happy as he stares down at Dante.
“Please,” I beg.
“Fine. But you better pray that he doesn’t die.”
“He won’t. Help me.”
George hooks his arm under one of Dante's, and I take the other. Together, we drag the unconscious man to the back of the pharmacy and hoist him onto the bed.
“We’re going to have to take out the bullet,” George barks.