Chapter 14: Chapter 14

◇ KEL ◇

My search for the basement only took seconds. I found the narrow stairs behind a door almost perfectly hidden among inconspicuous marble columns, if it weren't for the bloody hand prints on the edges. Not to mention the bright red droplets on the floor.

It's the door where Ricchar and his men went through; I was pretty sure. I took the stairs and was surprised when it led me to a wide and well-equipped basement. Tall dividers, rows of lights, and what looked like locked storage rooms filled the space. It looked three times bigger than Miles' studio-type basement.

"Charr? Ricchar?" I knocked on the rooms I passed by, ignoring the uncanny feeling of being watched.

From what the maid said, the bloody and wounded woman was actually Cloe—Ricchar's wife—and Cloe definitely needed medical attention. I weighed the odds. There couldn't be a doctor around here, especially in a place as remote as this exclusive estate.

"Mykaela!" A messy-haired, scowling Ricchar grabbed my arm from behind, causing me to immediately tense up. His voice sounded a bit hoarse. "What're you doing down here?"

"What happened? I saw you and the guards..." My gaze dropped to his stained sleeves and then to his sweaty face and neck, as if he just finished a sprint.

"You can't be in here—"

"Charr, I saw her. Where is she?" I looked around.

Empty hall. Dim lights. The guards could be in one of the rooms.

I could even hear shuffling noises from where I stood. "You need to bring her to a hospital," I told Ricchar. His wife already lost a lot of blood. Why didn't they rush her to an emergency room instead?

"Nearest one's hours away." Ricchar was about to lead me back to the stairs, still gripping my arm.

"She's bleeding profusely." I wriggled free from his hold.

At my adamant tone, Ricchar let go of me and sighed out loud. For a moment he just looked unsure of what to say or do next.

"I'm trained in first aid." I stood my ground. Surprisingly, my hands weren't shaking despite my nerves. My anxiety levels were hitting the mark, but I had full control over it. I had to. Someone needed my help. "Where's Cloe?"

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A panting, writhing woman with a face as pale as paper blindly held onto her husband's arm as I inspected her injuries. Some superficial, then mostly deep cuts on her limbs.

Stab wounds? The abrasions on her wrists suggested the use of ligature. Was she restrained when they found her?

The guards had tried to stop the bleeding but didn't really know what to do next.  Cloe's lips now looked drained of color.

"Pressure on all her deep wounds. Help me with her clothes." I ripped open Cloe's blouse, whose cloth was just soaked in blood that it clung to her porcelain skin like wet paint. "Cut her pants off."

"Mia cara, va bene, tutto bene..." Ricchar gently caressed his wife's matted hair. Tears dampened his flushed cheeks. He clasped Cloe's bloody hand, her nails stained dark red and brown.

"Keep pressure on them. Someone get me clean medical supplies now, needles, gauze pads," I instructed the guards just standing around us. Some couldn't even look at Cloe, and one guy just appeared shell-shocked while making the Sign of the Cross, eyes wide and filled with uncertainty.

Three of them fumbled around Cloe, practically clueless on what to do. The tallest one helped secure a makeshift operating table made of an old work desk wrapped in thick cloth. Fresh blood had painted half of it bright red, enough to freak anyone out at the mere sight of it.

"Do something!" Ricchar, still tearful and fidgeting, let go of Cloe's hand when she started laboring for breath. He stepped away and covered his face.  "Merda!"

"Charr, calm down. Get first aid kits, clean gloves, sterilized needles, syringes, alcohol, gauze pads and towels now. Please."

"Okay." Ricchar held back tears and gave his wife one last glance,  then hightailed it out of the basement.

"Cloe? Hey. Cloe, I'm Kel. Here to help. Please stay awake," I told Cloe while assessing the rest of the wounds.

1) Pressure to stop the bleeding

2) Tourniquets

3) Coagulant

4) Anesthetic

5) Disinfectant

6) Stitches

7) Antibiotics

8) Fluids and blood transfusion

9) Check if concussed

10) ER

Not necessarily in that order, but, the nearest emergency room was just too far away.  We should focus on the bleeding first, check for other serious issues, stabilize Cloe, and then rush her to the hospital.

Although challenging, I tried to steady my breathing as I stared at the woman squirming in pain.  It made my chest ache a little...seeing her suffering before my own eyes.

Someone hurt her purposefully.  This wasn't a result of some car accident;  nor had Cloe been just a random passerby caught in a messy crossfire.

Panic built up in my nerves. So I muttered a prayer, my palm and fingers now red with warm blood.

Damn. I hadn't done anything like this in a long time. My last medical training was a year ago. A small, cold training room filled with hollow dummies and bossy medical staff was far from this real-life, in-your-face fatally injured woman bleeding to death. After the guards helped me with the bleeding, I checked the tourniquets on Cloe's wounds.

"Need blood," Cloe managed to choke out in between gasps. Her shaky hand held onto my wrist.

Thank God...she wasn't losing consciousness yet. "Cloe? Stay awake for me and Ricchar. Yeah?"

Static noises coming from the bodyguards' radios interrupted me while Cloe fought to stay conscious. Her long-lashed eyelids struggled to stay open.

"Let's keep pressure on the wounds, guys."  I sighed and kept gripping the gash on her forearm. "Please radio in for help."

"We already tried," said one of the younger guards.

"We need supplies and medicines down here. Alcohol, disinfectant, coagulants, anesthetic...whatever's available."  No time for translations. I was trying to tear off the sleeves off my dress to tie them around Cloe's other injuries.

Then one of the guards handed me handkerchiefs, so we used the cloths instead.

"Please be okay, please be okay..." I prayed under my breath. I then tapped Cloe's cheek repeatedly.  "Cloe? Cloe, tell me your blood type. Then we can do a blood transfusion. Okay?"

Two weak nods was Cloe's only response. More tears ran down her cheeks while she gasped.

No blood coming out of her mouth—thank God. But her injuries were still serious and fatal:  one stab wound in the chest, one on her thigh, two on her shoulders, dirt-covered abrasions on her arms and wrists, plus contusions on her face and neck. "Are you Type O?" I asked loudly, but Cloe only shook her head faintly. "A? B?"

"Ricchar." Cloe moaned in pain, her voice gruff and forced. "N-Need his blood."

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◆ MILES ◆

"I told you this would happen!"

"Silenzio!"

"You'd better know what you're doing." Muffled sobs. Female. Trembling, familiar voice. "He's our only child, Stefano!"

"Mia cara, non è nulla. Si calmi. Per favore."

"Cloe almost died!"

More muffled sobs.

"Do you even care? Huh? I told you to stay away from those criminals!"

The familiar voices cut through the dizzying haze my consciousness was trying to snap out of. They jolted me out of my quick nap.  Soon enough, I recognized it was just my parents, arguing again. Nothing surprising.

Whatever they were arguing about seemed confidential, though, since the two shut their mouth before I could sit up. I held onto the side of the couch, my vision blurry with dark hues of brown, red, and something shiny. I blinked away the indistinct outlines and grunted.

The shiny surface was the TV screen, black and turned off. The reds were from the draperies and furniture. The brown shades were the hardwood floors of my cousin's cold study room slash office. The air-conditioning almost numbed my fingertips.

Regaining full consciousness, I cussed when a dull ache radiated from the back of my neck straight to my forehead. Shit. Migraines again.

Then my mother rushed to the sofa to check on me.  "You okay?" My Mamma Eleana's soft but cold hands held my face while she leaned over me, her tan cheeks slightly damp from tears. "What's wrong?" Her gentle voice was almost a whisper.

"Like someone beat me with a baseball bat. Shit." I massaged my forehead and noticed I hadn't worn my watch.  For how long was I unconscious on this couch?  Why's my mom crying? What did she mean by 'Cloe almost died?' Something happened to her?

"You need something for the pain? I'll get you some—"

"What happened?" I ignored my mother's anxious behavior and glanced around the room. "How long was I out?"

Behind the messy work desk sat my tight-lipped father. His gray satin shirt covered his hairy arms that stay crossed below his chest. Apparent worry etched more lines on his fairly wrinkled face. For a man nearing retirement age and always stressed with work, he still looked well and spry.

"Pappa," I muttered after glancing at my panicking mother. "What happened to Cloe?"

"Maximiliano." Pappa stood up and took tentative steps towards us, then sat beside his teary-eyed wife.

"And we gotta go. I'm taking Mykaela to the airport."

For a minute or so, my parents went on arguing about what happened to Cloe and Lorenzio Tomassini's convoy just this morning. Shock and immediate concern filled my thoughts after hearing the news. Who would want to kill Cloe and Lorenzio?

"Where's Cloe, Mamma?" I asked as ill thoughts replaced the physical pain. My fingers still massaged the side of my head; the dull but growing ache wouldn't seem to go away.

"In Ricchar's room. Recovering."

"From what?"  I questioned louder. I tried to get up from the couch, but Pappa held me down. His strong hand even clasped my shoulder. "Pappa—"

"Calmati." My father gave me a stern look, and his bearded jaw seemed tense.

"Zitto!" Mamma resumed mouthing off to Pappa in Italian.

"Who ambushed them?" I shook off my father's constraining grip on my shoulder, eager to hear direct answers.

"We don't know," Mamma answered after looking away. Hesitation and another sob made her back off from the couch. "I told you, Stefano." She scowled at Pappa again. "But you never listen."

My father stayed sitting next to me. Pappa kept his vacuous eyes focused on my face, as if inspecting my current mental state. "Mia cara, calmati."

"I swear! If something happens—"

"Per favore." Pappa turned to give Mamma an ice-cold stare, just to shut her up.

As usual,  the two pretended to stop fighting when they realized I was getting uncomfortable.  It was a secret to most, but I knew the real deal. My parents had been contemplating divorce since I'd moved away to live alone and focus on my art...but mostly to stay away from our crazy family.

"What happened?" I got back on my feet and groaned in pain. My head throbbed and my entire forehead felt swollen.

"Everything's alright." My Pappa Stefano stood next to me with a calm gaze and a small frown on his tightly pressed together lips.

"Pappa."

"They got ambushed just past the old factory,"  my mother confessed after a stretch of silence. She was still sniveling. "They were driving back here with Lorenzio. Their convoys...some armed men shot at them. Only three of them were alive when the guards found them, including Cloe."

"Who did it?"  Who were those fucking bastards? Why did they try to kill Cloe? Right now I wanted to hit something, even though I could barely make guesses in my foggy head. Dammit. Shit just got real.

"Lorenzio had to be here to discuss the rest of the deal with me," Pappa Stefano said with his dark brows scrunched. "Ricchar's busy with other things, so Cloe made the trip herself." He shook his head faintly and looked away after frowning at me for some reason. "You and Ricchar should've been in that car. But since you care about nothing else but your private, comfortable life with your—"

"Stefano!" Mamma rushed to guide me back to the empty, comfy couch.

"Who the fuck did it?" I scowled and sat back down, only because my mother kept pleading for me to relax and stay still. But my chest now felt painful from all the anxiety and a fair amount of fear muddling my thoughts. My intakes of breath got louder while my imagination ran wild.

"Maximiliano, calmati."  Pappa sighed audibly and stood in front of us.

"Why would they hurt Cloe?"

"Sta' zitto!" Pappa's scowl showed disappointment, possibly due to his only son's indifference to the current state of the family business.

But I just couldn't care less.  Mykaela and I had to go now.  Especially after what happened to my sister-in-law.  "We're leaving." I sighed and stood up again.

"Your safety's more important right now, Maxim. Please just listen." My Mamma Eleana even gripped my arm to stop me from heading for the door.

"I need to take Mykaela to the airport. She needs to go home."

"She's taking care of their injuries." Pappa stared back at me. Now his stone-hard expression looked much more authoritative. "You and Mykaela can't leave until I say so."

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