Page 112 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

Reign appears behind him. The guy doesn't even see the blade until it's sliding between his ribs, punching through his lung and into his heart. He drops the gun, gurgling blood, then collapses in a heap on the ground.

I drop to my knees next to Livvie, my hands shaking as I press them against the wound. The bullet hit high on her shoulder, close to her collarbone. Too close to major arteries. Too much blood pooling beneath her, soaking into the concrete.

"Stay with me, princess," I growl, carefully taking her into my arms. "Don't you fucking dare leave me."

Her eyes flutter open, unfocused and glassy. "Kingston…"

"I'm here. I've got you."

But even as I say it, I can feel her slipping away. Her skin loses more and more color by the second, now white as paper, lips turning blue. And the blood won't stop flowing, no matter how hard I press.

"Can't… can't feel my arm," she rasps, her voice barely audible.

My stomach drops like a concrete block. Nerve damage. Maybe worse.

"Ambulance," I bark at Bronx. "Now."

"Already called. It’s two minutes out."

Two minutes feels like two fucking hours. I strip off my shirt, pressing it against the wound, but the fabric soaks through in seconds. This isn't just muscle damage. The bullet hit something important, something that's making her fade right in front of me.

"Kingston," she breathes, her eyes strugglingto focus. "I'm scared."

"Don't be scared, princess. I won’t let anything happen to you. You hear me? You're gonna be fucking fine."

But my voice cracks. And I'm terrified. More terrified than I've ever been in my life. I've seen men die from hits like this. I've put men in the ground with bullets to the shoulder because they’re deadly when they hit the right spot.

Sirens wail in the distance, getting closer and closer as my throat constricts. The ambulance finally arrives, paramedics jumping out before it fully stops. They take one look at Livvie and start working fast to check her vitals.

"GSW to the upper torso," one of them says into his radio. "Possible subclavian artery damage. We need trauma surgery standing by."

They load her onto a gurney and start an IV as they run her toward the ambulance. I try to climb into the back, but one of the paramedics blocks me.

"Sorry, sir. Family only."

"I'm her husband."

He looks at my blood-soaked hands, my bare chest, the guns my brothers are still holding. "Are you injured?"

I grit my teeth and back away. "No. Just get her to the fucking hospital."

"We’re taking her to Mount Sinai. We'll meet you there."

The ambulance pulls away, sirens screaming, and I'm left standing on the pier with my brothers and two dead bodies. Livvie's blood is still on my hands, under my fingernails, soaked into my skin.

"They’re going to Mount Sinai," I say as I run toward our SUV.

"K, the scene?—"

"Fuck the scene. Clean it up later."

Bronx tosses me a spare shirt from the trunk. I rip off my vest and shrug it on, but I can still smell her blood. Still see her face going white as life drained out of her.

The drive to Mount Sinai takes twenty minutes in traffic and I am climbing out of my skin as Bronx maneuvers in and out of lanes.

"She's gonna be fine," Reign says from the back seat. "Livvie's tough."

I don't answer. Can't answer. Because tough doesn't mean shit when a bullet tears through the wrong artery. Tough doesn't save you when your nerves get severed.