Chapter 5 The Mafia Boss

SADIE -

I reached out and tapped his leg with my boot, ready to strike if he turned on me, but he stayed face down on the cushion.

“Mister.” My voice broke, and I had to clear it before trying again. “Do you need help?”

His back rose and fell in the silence. His breath still sounded ragged.

I leaned forward and pressed the tip of my finger against the slickness coating his sleeve. When I pulled it back, I rolled the sticky redness between my fingers.

Shit. I closed my eyes and slowly breathed in through my nose.

I did not want to do what needed to come next, but I couldn’t just leave him out here on my front porch.

I opened my eyes and stood, trying to decide what to do when the damn dog next door finally saw me.

The barking was immediate and loud, and within moments, the lights flicked on in the house.

“Shit.”

I didn’t have a choice; I’d have to bring him inside.

I hurried through the front door and hung my weapon back on the hook before returning to the porch.

I caught his hanging wrist and pulled his arm across my shoulders. It took some maneuvering before I was fully beneath him. With one hand locked around his forearm and the other braced behind his thigh, I pushed up with my legs.

A breath exploded from me when his full weight settled across my shoulders, forcing a grunt from my throat. My knees threatened to buckle, but they held.

Thankfully, my Venari strength had its uses outside a training yard.

“Welcome into the Mercer House of Healing, where apparently strange men can just fall at my doorstep and expect to be cared for,” I sarcastically muttered as I carried him toward the door.

Blood soaked through my shirt, and I clenched my teeth hard before shifting him higher on my shoulders so I could turn us through the doorway. My screen door shut just as I heard the side door of the neighbor's house creak open.

I’d never hear the end of it if Franny saw me carrying a man into my house. The phone calls would never stop, and the nosy visits would only irritate me.

With a heave, I twisted enough so that he flopped, not-so-gently, onto the wood floor.

He landed mostly on his stomach, one arm trapped beneath his chest while the injured one stretched awkwardly beside him.

“Sorry,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t entirely sure I meant it. After all, he was the one who'd had the gall to fall on my porch.

The barking finally died when Franny called the dog back in.

I shut and locked the door before dropping to my knees beside him. I felt the stickiness of the blood pulling at my skin as it dried.

The feeling forced my years of training to kick in, and I went straight for my first-aid kit, along with two clean towels.

His long hair had fallen completely over his face when I dropped him, but I ignored it and reached for his injured arm instead. Whatever he looked like didn’t matter nearly as much as stopping the blood soaking into my floor.

The jacket was the first problem I had to deal with. It was thick black leather that looked more expensive than a semester of tuition.

It took some effort, but I finally had it off and was working the buttons free on his shirt. Blood coated my fingers, causing them to slip from the last button as I worked it. Saliva filled my mouth as the same old memory tried to surface.

My brother’s body covered in blood because of a mistake I’d made.

Because I’d trusted my gut.

I counted my breaths before I shook the memory away -- hard -- and focused on removing the shirt to get to the wound.

A bullet had torn through the outside of his upper arm, leaving an ugly hole surrounded by blood and shredded skin.

A frown pulled the sides of my lips down, and I leaned in close for a better examination. The skin around the wound had already gone oddly pale and thick at the edges. Swelling, maybe, though I'd never seen a fresh gunshot look quite like that.

A car drove by the house, and I paused, waiting for it to pass. I wasn’t going to take any chances. A gunshot meant a fight, and who knows if the fight followed the man.

When I could no longer hear the hum of its engine, I turned back to the man and carefully lifted his arm enough to check the other side. The exit wound was still fresh, but oddly small.

“Thank God.”

At least I wouldn’t have to figure out how to remove a bullet at three in the morning.

I folded a towel and pressed it firmly against the wound. When his arm jerked, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Sir?” My voice sounded too loud in the silence of my home, with only the clock above my TV ticking in response.

He didn’t move again. His muscles just slowly relaxed beneath my hands, giving me the chance to lower my heart rate.

“You could warn a girl next time.”

Or maybe just not get shot at.

I held pressure for several minutes before lifting the towel enough to check the wound. It had slowed considerably.

I reached for the antiseptic anyway.

I cleaned around both wounds as carefully as I could, stitched the exit wound up, packed gauze over each side, then wound a bandage tightly around his upper arm until everything stayed firmly in place.

Only then did I finally sit back on my heels.

Blood covered my hands, my shirt was ruined, and the expensive stranger was still facedown on my floor.

“Wonderful.”

At least he wasn’t going to die in my house. I’d be the butt of Bennet’s jokes until the day I died.

His hair had fallen in a tangled blond curtain across his cheek and fanned out over wood.

There was dirt on his neck and what looked like another streak of blood disappearing beneath the strands near his jaw.

“At least I can make you slightly less horrifying before you wake up.”

I pushed myself up and carried the bloody towels into the kitchen before filling a bowl with warm water.

I took that moment to turn inward. I could hear my dad’s voice. “A good Hunter knows when to calm their thoughts, even in the worst of situations.”

And mine were anything but calm.

When I was as present as I could get, I grabbed a clean rag from the drawer and brought both back with me.

I wrung the rag out over the bowl and knelt beside his head. For the first time since finding him, I reached for his hair.

The strands were surprisingly soft as I swept them away from his face.

Once I did, my hand stopped.

Green eyes flashed through my mind.

The expensive black suit. The long, blond hair. That infuriatingly beautiful face.

I stared down at him in disbelief.

“No freaking way.”

Vasiliy Dobrev was lying unconscious on my floor.

The words of the anchorwoman from the gala slid through my mind before I could stop them.

“Do the rumors surrounding Mr. Dobrev’s alleged mafia connections make him more dangerous, or more interesting?”

A nervous breath escaped me as I looked over the blood drying along his neck and the bandage wrapped around his shoulder. “I’m gonna have to say more dangerous.”

And I just gave him permission to enter my home... great!

On the plus side, at least he wouldn't know he has that access.

I dipped the rag into the warm water again and wrung it out before leaning closer. Dirt streaked the sharp line of his jaw, and another smear of blood had dried near the corner of his mouth. I pressed the damp cloth against it and wiped carefully, trying very hard not to think about the fact that I was kneeling over one of the richest and supposedly most dangerous men in Meridian Grove at three in the morning.

His lips parted beneath the rag, and two sharp points peeked into view.

My fingers locked around the cloth, and cold rushed beneath my skin so quickly that every hair along my arms lifted.

The Bloodless Count.

I eased back on my heels and reached inward again, searching for the warning my Venari senses should've been screaming at me. There was still nothing. Yet there was no mistaking what I was looking at.

I shifted backward onto one knee, preparing to drag his apparently no-longer-dying ass outside, when his eyes opened.

The green I'd seen on the television was gone, and deep red eyes stared back at me.