Chapter 22: Chapter 22

◇ KEL ◇

"Enzo will stay in the guest room near yours. For your convenience." Ricchar didn't say anything else after he told his security guys to transfer Cloe and Enzo out of the basement.

It happened before I retreated back to the guest room, which served as my private room for the rest of the weekend, until I could hop on a flight to New York to visit my family.

Tired but restless, I tried to ignore the tightness in my chest. Just all the pent-up anxiety, most likely. I got up from the bed. The wall clock reminded me of my next task. I'd last checked on Cloe and Enzo half an hour ago.

Both seemed stable and gradually recuperating, thankfully, although I still worried the improvised surgeries earlier wouldn't be enough.

I wasn't a licensed nurse or physician.  I wasn't a licensed anything in this country.

But I didn't need to study medicine for decades to come to the conclusion that Cloe and Enzo should be taken to a proper hospital immediately. I was far from a trained surgeon, and I honestly wouldn't know what to do should any internal complications and scary infections arise.

Bad news was, there's a 50-50 chance that kind of thing would happen soon. Even though I'd already stressed this a few times, the Falcos' security team just wouldn't listen to reason or my suggestions.

No one was supposed to leave the estate. "Just the bosses' orders," they said. They kept saying the coast wasn't clear yet, and some other variations of the stupid excuse.

For now, I couldn't do much but monitor Cloe and Enzo's injuries and vital signs from time to time, and ensure that the blood transfusion wouldn't set off severe reactions within the next twelve hours.  Checking on the purely gunshot-wounded victim was easier and less time-consuming, so I proceeded to the other guest room.

A different guard sat beside the tall door, reading the paper with a walkie-talkie strapped to his hip. "Signorina," the short-haired guard greeted with a slight bow.

"I'll just check his bandages. Is Mr. Tomassini's bodyguard still inside?"

"Sì." The guy opened the door for me. His stiff smile must be my cue to enter the guest room again.

"Grazie." I didn't waste time and approached the occupied bed.

The room's lack of lighting didn't obscure the large nail recently hammered into one of the wooden bedposts. It held a small IV fluids bag right next to the sleeping patient.

Although doubtful at first, I'd made the decision to administer fluids because Enzo got dehydrated, and his blood pressure dropped sharply after losing blood. Possibly up to a pint, if I estimated correctly.

But if his wounds bled worse, I would discontinue the IV drip right away. The fluids popping the clots would be a nightmare at this stage.  It wasn't an ideal setup.  For now, we would have to make do with what supplies were available.

His bodyguard, Berto, had fallen asleep on the couch in the corner. A gray—and probably fully loaded—handgun quietly sat on the console beside him. The man was in a sitting position but was close to toppling on the couch, perhaps as exhausted as his boss.

The long travel to reach the estate wasn't a comfortable one, and even worse when their convoy had been thoroughly ambushed by a group of trigger-happy psychopaths. I let out a shaky breath. Imagining being in a deadly shootout like that was horrendous enough.

Mentally counting the remaining hours before midnight, I grabbed the BP apparatus and stood close to the guy resting on the bed. "Average. VS stable and normal," I whispered to myself. I put the apparatus away, then checked his pulse by placing my fingers on his neck. "No distended veins, steady breaths, no excessive sweating."  So far, everything looked good.

The bandages on Enzo's neck, chest, and left arm still looked white and clean and smelled of fresh antiseptic. I'd made sure to put some around his wounds, even if it made him wince in pain every time he would snap back to reality.

Also, I had to examine his eyes again to check for brain damage, cranial pressure, fractures, and all that. Just necessary precautions for someone who'd been in a vehicular accident. Half an hour from now I'd be back in here to inspect his blood pressure and check the bandages again.

"I know it hurts like heck, but..." After carefully peeling off the thin blanket that covered his upper body, I crouched by his side to check his injured arm. "Better safe than sorry, Mr. Tomassini." I'd barely muttered the advice to his unconscious profile when I heard him groan.

His scowling lips opened to let out a sigh.  "Merda."  The brown-haired guy lying on his back budged on the bed, clearly regaining consciousness. The constrained guttural noises from him alerted me again.

Did the pain get worse?  I'd already given him painkillers. Did I have to give him more?  Uncertainty mixed with my curiosity about the guy. I backed away to give him some space. "Ti senti meglio, Mr. Tomassini?"

"Ammalato." Enzo blinked at me. "Is it morning already?" he asked in a hoarse voice. He had a faint accent—an unusual Italian-English mix.

Oh. So he remembered I wasn't from around here. I thought he'd been too distracted by the pain and drugs to be able to recall details from earlier. "Not yet, Mr. Tomassini."

Wincing and clutching his injured arm, Enzo's attentive gaze roamed around the room Ricchar's maids had fixed up for him. Then Enzo looked at me with creased brows. The dark half-circles below his eyes didn't deflect the focus away from his thick brows and long lashes. "Sembri molto giovane...per essere un dottore."

I took a second to mentally translate what he just said. I put on a smile. Of course...he doubted I was a real doctor. "I'm a medical student. They already called for an ambulance. Not sure what's keeping them so long. For now, I can only oversee your initial recovery from the bullet wounds."

He kept flinching, then glanced over my plain clothes.

"Would you like some water? Food?"

"I need to talk to Mr. Falco."

Was he referring to Miles' dad? Probably. "Oh...um...he's busy with something at the moment. But I'll tell him you asked to see him."

"What's your name again?" The guy clasped his bandaged arm and tried to tone down the pain-filled grunts.

"Mykaela, Mr. Tomassini." I pasted a smile on my lips. "D'you need anything, Signore?" From what I'd heard, this guy came from another wealthy Italian clan with international business ties. So it seemed appropriate to politely address him by his family name.

"Enzo. Call me Enzo," he stressed with a sigh after looking away. "Mr. Tomassini è mio padre."

"Right." I tried not to stare as he kept shifting on the bed, as if he was trying to find a more comfortable sleeping position.

It was quite a challenge to ignore his impressively toned torso and tan skin; he was very much half-naked under the blanket that covered his lower body. His ruined and bloody suit had been collected by the maids after I stitched up his wounds. Now only a pair of tight boxer briefs kept him clothed. Ricchar's maid had brought in a clean shirt and jogger pants, but Enzo and his bodyguard left it untouched on the console.

"Um...do you need help—  Whoa." I immediately put my arm around his back.  "Careful." I helped him up; maybe he wanted to sit on the bed.

He probably weighed almost twice my heaviest. For one, he looked as tall as Miles, but much more muscular.  "I need to pee." Enzo looked at me again.

"Oh." I glanced to Berto in the dim corner; he was snoring his ass off. The guy looked like he was pushing 50.  A little too old to be a personal bodyguard, if I were to compare him to Ricchar's security detail. "Sure. I'll help you." I stood on my toes to reach for the IV bag.

"Figlio di putta—" Enzo grabbed onto the bedpost after cussing. He still struggled to stand on his own feet, which only made me a lot more nervous.

Did he break his leg or something? I didn't see any signs of internal fractures earlier. But maybe I'd just been too optimistic to be thorough?  "Is it your legs? Do you feel like you broke some bones or..."

"The crash destroyed my car. My foot got twisted, but..." Enzo replied with gritted teeth. "Nothing serious." He scowled while my skinny arm supported his tall, athletic body against the bedpost.

"You mean, your ankle got hurt after the crash?" I kept my arm wrapped around his stiff back.

"Yeah. I really need to piss."

"Oh." For a second or two, I tried to wake Berto up, but the guard only kept napping on the couch.

"Let him rest. He's tired," Enzo mumbled as we wobbled our way to the bathroom.

Good Lord. He weighed like a truck. It was all I could think of after we almost stumbled towards the white door in the corner. "Sicuro di star bene?"

"He's been my bodyguard since I was little. I wasn't able to live a normal life since then." The guy let out a constrained chuckle. "Are you Maximiliano's girlfriend?"

The questioned stiffened me up. "Who told you that?" I muttered after trying not to look so surprised.

Enzo ignored my reply. He held onto my forearm, so I stayed standing right behind him. "Met him at an art show. I just heard he was hanging out with that Vinciguerra kid."

"Last year," was my muted response before clamping my mouth shut. I didn't know what else to say.

"Ah." Enzo stood in front of the toilet now, with me holding the IV bag above his broad shoulders, while my chest was touching his warm back.

I stood right behind him in case he fell out of balance or something.

"I used to dislike gays. Just because...my parents told me I should."

"Understandable," I muttered as I examined the bandages covering a portion of his wide shoulders.

He wouldn't let go of my arm that was snug around his bare waist. His warmth told me his temperature was just a little above normal. A good sign—it meant his immune system wasn't fighting off any serious infections.

"My family's quite the same. Strict and goes-to-church-every-Sunday type."

"Ah..." Enzo steadied himself in front of the toilet bowl. "I've seen you before—   Merda!"  He grunted again.

Then I heard a gush of water. Like a faucet just turned on. "Yeah. Like, an hour ago." I grinned to myself, finding the situation funny. Was he having trouble peeing? "Is there blood in your urine? Is it yellow? Brown?"

"Normal." The gushing noise went on. "I saw you in a show. You had long hair and dark eye makeup."

"Oh." Probably at one of my recent runway stints here in Italy. Did he like fashion shows? Or was he dating a model?  "It's my current day job."

"Interesting. I'm dating a fashion designer." Enzo cleared his throat while he grabbed some toilet paper.  "I've never been shot. Hurts like shit, honestly. But at least, I have a pretty girl helping me out."

I snickered. Just this morning he wouldn't trust me with his life, wouldn't even let me near his gunshot wounds...and now we were sharing personal details, holding each other in the bathroom while I helped him pee.

"Do you know who shot—" Enzo winced and clasped his left arm after turning away from the toilet.  He faced me.

"Shoulder? Or just the arm?" Crap. Maybe he tore his stitches open. "You good to walk?" I asked to distract him from questioning me. I really didn't know much about this morning's news-worthy events.

"Help me wash my hands," he murmured, checking out the heplock stuck in a vein above his wrist.

"Of course. Then I'll take you back to bed. 'Kay?"

In response, Enzo just smiled weakly.  He stayed quiet while I helped him wash his hands. Then he looked at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Using his fingers, he combed back his wavy hair that sometimes covered his stubbled face.

His partial nudity tempted my eyes again. He looked like an athlete—perfectly toned arms, a strong core, and his thighs looked thick with trained muscles. Well, he seemed the type that had his own gym at home. Rich kid that he was.

"Um...so...I'll be back in an hour." I glanced away when he caught me checking him out.  Focus, K! You're a pro; act like it, I reminded my flustered brain.

Noiseless seconds lingered before he spoke again. "Okay. I'll just stay in bed."

Oh jeez. I hoped I didn't blush instantly from pure embarrassment.  "If necessary, I'll clean the sutures and replace the bandages on your shoulder." I used a more clinical tone this time while I led him out of the bathroom, with my arm still wrapped around his lower back.

He flinched after every step. His ankle and stitched wounds probably still hurt like a bitch. "How much do I pay you?" Enzo strained to say clearly.

Did he just say 'pay you'?  I halted in my steps before we could reach the bed. "I'm sorry?"

"For this morning, and for being my nurse." His dark brows scrunched when he frowned. "Would I need one for a while?"

"Sorry. I'm not a nurse—"

"Too bad." Enzo grunted as he carefully sat down on the bed with my help.

"Easy. Don't strain yourself." I sat beside him to check his bandages, the skin around his neck injury, and then his wounded arm. The pinkish spots on the gauze were getting bigger. "You're bleeding again." I sighed. "I'm stopping your IV drip."

"I will still pay you for everything." He kept staring. "Do you take cheque?"

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