Chapter 15: Chapter 15

◇ KEL ◇

Face and neck damp with sweat, I glanced to the other fully conscious person in the room. I opened the door wider and quietly stepped in.

Ricchar watched his wife closely as he rested on the wrinkled comforter. Then he looked at me when I stayed slouching by the door.  "Grazie."

His wife remained still on the single bed. Cloe's face and extremities were no longer covered in her own blood. The exhaustion had knocked her out before her wounds got stitched and bandaged carefully—I had to stitch up the biggest ones to ward off infections.

Ricchar and the guards trusted my first aid skills and training enough to let me do whatever I thought would help Cloe best.  To our advantage, the Falcos' former medical staff had stocked first aid drugs and enough medical supplies in the mansion's basement, vital in cases such as this. The cold, dry basement was perfect for stocking emergency meds and supplies.

A sigh of relief accompanied my muttered prayer of thanks.  Ricchar and I had made sure Cloe rested comfortably in the bed. The maids had also brought pillows and food. A blanket covered Cloe from the chest down to her bare feet.  The dress that served as a patient gown engulfed her petite frame, the cloth pale yellow like her pallid skin.

The blood transfusion wasn't over yet, hence the tubes sticking out of Cloe's and Ricchar's forearms. He'd assured me multiple times they had been tested and had compatible blood types.

Relieved that Cloe was now resting while getting the blood she needed, I let out a deep breath and took the surgical mask off my face. I also administered antibiotics earlier to fight off possible infections; Cloe's injuries were just blatant entry points.

"She would've died if you weren't here," Ricchar mumbled after a moment of complete silence. His attention stayed on his injured wife, his light-colored eyes just watching Cloe's resting figure. "The staff quit weeks ago. We haven't found replacements yet."

"Cloe's strong-willed. She'll be okay." I nodded at him reassuringly. "And you stocked clean supplies."

In response, Ricchar nodded faintly and gave me a tight smile, his eyes still pinkish from crying earlier. He wanted to stay close to his wife, so I let him be.

"Charr. Um, can I ask..." I took a step forward. "Any idea, as to who could've done this?"

Dead silence filled the small room the next second, putting emphasis on Ricchar's unpleasant reaction after my question. His scruffy jaw tensed while he tried not to scowl. "I have a few guesses."

"I see," was all I muttered after a moment of hesitation. The whole thing still intrigued me.  Business-related crime, maybe?  Was it sheer luck that they'd found Cloe alive out there while the rest of her convoy had been gunned down and immediately killed off? Such monstrously criminal violence...  "I'll check on her again and make sure she's stable enough. Then we'll drive them to the hospital."

"Thanks." Ricchar didn't bother to glance at me again and just kept staring at his unconscious wife. If he could hug her tight and closely to him, he would have done that an hour ago. But he understood that he had to maintain a safe distance from Cloe for now.

"I gotta check on the guy again. See if he's still bleeding."

"Lorenzio," Ricchar said before I could step out of the room. "His family's doing business with us."

Curious for more details, I stayed by the door, noticing Ricchar's muted voice and constrained expression.  Perhaps he did not want to share such information with me.

"Cloe met up with him in the city." Ricchar sighed and slowly sat up, but he stayed on his makeshift bed near Cloe's.

"Don't get up yet—you'll get dizzy."

"The drivers and guards were shot dead when we found them."

Holy crap.  "They were on their way here?" I asked as my brain imagined another bunch of dead, bloody bodies,  and a similar incident that could happen in this very lot in a matter of minutes.  Oh dear Lord.  "Have you told your guys to stay on the lookout?"

"Told them to wear heavy armor and bring out more guns. Don't worry," Ricchar mumbled with furrowed brows. "I expected something like this would happen again." He shook his head weakly. His dark bangs almost covered his fairly bloodshot eyes. "But not to her."

Wait. So this already happened before?  This was actually something he expected—getting shot at and being left to die in the middle of nowhere.  Good grief...

Shock rendered me incapable of responding. I swallowed the ball of nerves and anxiety constricting my throat.

The estate was too big I doubted the Falcos had enough security men to guard every possible entry point. The thought that the huge lot was enclosed in impressively tall concrete fences gave me a sense of security, though. But who would be that ruthless to keep up the senseless murderous spree? The family's business rivals?  Envious competitors brimming with hate and bad omen?

"Business is business." Ricchar scoffed with a frown making his lips pout. "It's my fault she got involved." He swore in his native language and lay back down. "Soulless bastards with no respect for other people's lives. To them, money and power's everything."

Speechless, I stood still by the door, my throat suddenly dry and almost painful. I wanted to know more, but a gut feeling told me it would be in my best interest that I knew less. "Please keep an eye on her. Call me if she wakes up."

"Thanks, Mykaela."

Carefully and noiselessly, I stepped out of the room and closed the door behind me. I breathed in a long inhalation and put the thin face mask back on. It smelled of antiseptic and somewhat of fresh blood. I had to change it again.

Preoccupied with the other task at hand, I wiped sweat off my face and neck,  then walked back to the improvised operating room Ricchar's men had fixed up. Heeding my requests, the maids and guards had brought down enough lighting and medical supplies to help me out. The area now looked more of a makeshift operating room and less of a dark, dingy storage area.

It only took me a couple of steps before I reached the injured guy on the table. No longer bleeding copiously, thankfully.

R – Responsive?

Check.  To a degree, he was responding.

S – Send for help.

The guards said they'd called for an ambulance, but I doubted it would get here in an hour.

A – Airways?

Check.  No obstructive fluids or blood in his mouth or esophagus.

B – Breathing normally?

The guy wasn't gasping for breath and didn't have any trouble breathing. At least not yet.

C – CPR?

His current condition didn't require chest compressions, and he didn't go into hypovolemic shock. Thank God.

D – Defibrillator (AED)?

Not necessary.  My assessment told me his condition was less life-threatening than Cloe's.

The guards brought him down almost an hour ago while I'd been stitching and bandaging up Cloe's wounds. Before I could wash blood off of my skin, the guards brought the bleeding guy into the basement.

Imagine my surprise when I realized I had not one but two dying patients in desperate need of medical attention. This mystery guy was a different case, though.

Although I'd freaked out for a bit, I patched him up with no hesitation, not minding he might be the one who harmed Cloe. But since the guards looked genuinely concerned for him, too, I pushed the suspicions aside.

He looked bloody but was not covered in stab wounds. Unlike Cloe. The most threatening wounds he sustained were the bullet grazes on his forehead and on the side of his neck.  Either he carried a lucky rabbit's foot on him, or the hitmen weren't professionals.

Both seemed true at the moment, though.  Why would someone want him dead?

◇