Chapter 90

Layla

I guided the still-trembling woman out of the parking garage and into a dimly lit hallway. Even with the past year of my life taking me to some of the most remote rooms and hallways in a variety of buildings, I knew this was sketchy at best and downright terrifying at worst.

“I can’t imagine what you’re thinking right now,” I admitted as I nudged us down another hallway, headed towards the very back of the building.

“If you hadn’t just saved my life,” the woman said, “I’d think you were trying to kill me.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you.” I paused outside what I was pretty sure was the door to Aldo’s illicit little clinic. Hopefully nobody was here. I couldn’t hear anything from inside, so I popped the door ajar. Well, at least I hadn’t set off any alarms or warning bells.

Past the door was, as I’d suspected, a room full of shelves stocked with various medical supplies. There was also a utility sink in the far corner and three medical cots lined up against the wall.

Yes, this would do nicely.

A strong chemical odor burned at my nose, and when I flicked the switch beside the door, an equally strong fluorescent light burned at my retinas.

The woman froze at the entrance to the closet. “I thought you said this was a clinic?”

“It is.” I started towards the first medical cot in the row. “Or, it kind of is. I’m sort of making this up as a go, if I’m being honest.”

I patted the medical table before I turned to the shelves to suss out the supplies I’d need to get her cleaned and patched up.

“Why?” The woman had leaned into the room to watch me work, her dark brows furrowed beneath her mussed bangs.

“Because I want to help you,” I said as plainly as I could. I turned away from her to reassess the medical stockpile. It was surprisingly robust, with a full array of bandages, ointments, and even a few over-the-counter painkillers.

“But … why?” She had come all of the way into the room now, lingered by my cleared-off table.

I set my supplies down and again motioned for her to sit. Surprisingly, she obeyed, wriggling onto the table so she sat slightly above my eye level. With careful, gentle fingers, I lifted bloodied pieces of hair from her forehead. “What’s your name?”

She winced as the strands tugged at torn skin. A few smaller cuts dotted her her forehead, but nothing that would need stitches. Good.

“I’m Layla, by the way.” I fetched disinfectant wipes and started dabbing. “I know that stings, but how are you feeling otherwise? Headache? Dizzy?”

“No.” Her eyes followed my fingers as I tossed the bloodied gauze. “I’m … Vanessa.”

I didn’t balk at the hesitation in her delivery. It wasn’t surprising she’d want to give me a fake name; we were, after all, cleaning her wounds in the basement of a strange condo to avoid … well, everything.

“I’m doing this,” I said, leaning back towards her again, this time searching out signs of concussion, “because I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, and I think maybe it’s time I do some good instead.”

Vanessa’s brows shot skyward in surprise. She said nothing, but her shoulders sagged the slightest inch, like for some reason, my admission had calmed her. Reassured her.

“No signs of concussion.” I let my eyes scan quickly down her lean form. “Does anything else hurt?”

Vanessa flexed her fingers around the table, swung her legs slightly. “No, I don’t think so.”

I pretended to continue my perusal of her kneecaps, but really, I was noticing the other little things about her—the way her fingers gripped the cot so tightly, they’d gone white. The way her eyes kept flicking towards the door.

The way, even though she seemed to trust me, her shoulders stayed stiff with tension. Sure, she’d just been attacked. But she wasn’t just jittery—she was alert in a way that suggested a sort of permanence.

“Do you have somewhere safe to stay?” I asked, dabbing at a tiny scrape on her knee.

She hesitated just a beat too long. “Oh. Yes. I’ll be fine.”

Lie. I didn’t need the slight sideways flick of her eyes or the tight smile to know. She was hardly my first victim patient.

I turned away, busied my hands with returning the supplies to their proper places. Conversation was sometimes more comfortable, safer, without direct eye contact. Without that feeling of scrutiny.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable sharing,” I said, keeping my voice light, casual. “But if you need help, I have resources. I am an ER doctor.”

The following silence told me everything I needed to know. Vanessa did need help. She wasn’t used to asking for it—but she’d run out of options. Maybe the attack in the parking lot hadn’t been random, or maybe it’d been the last straw of frazzled nerves.

Whatever the case, I knew I couldn't leave her. Not until I made sure she was safe.

I turned halfway towards her, again avoiding that direct scrutinizing stare. “I am going to help you, okay? You’re not alone anymore.”

A sudden, wracking sob shook Vanessa’s shoulders, and she crumpled in on herself like a wilted flower. I was at her side in a second, pulling her in close.

Her cheek collided with my shoulder, and it was like someone had opened the floodgates of her emotions. Her chest heaved with sobs, and tears instantly soaked through my shirt.

I held her close, my fingers weaving soothing circles on her shoulder blades. My instincts as a mother wanted to murmur reassuring words that everything would be all right.

But as a woman who’d recently had her whole world ripped out from under her and her story rewritten, I knew that sometimes, you just needed a good cry.

So, I didn’t speak, didn’t tell her it was all right, didn’t try to shush her. I merely held her close and let her cry. For some reason, it felt right, holding her like this. Like it was healing something inside me as much as her.

I don’t know how long we sat like that, but at long last, her tears dried up and her sobs died down and she sat back. Sniffling. Wiping at her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.” I ran a finger beneath my own damp eyes. “I think I needed that, too.”

“I’ve just …” Her eyes flicked up towards me. The tear-induced redness only accented the emerald of her iris. “I’ve been alone for a long time.”

I nodded. “I know. Me too.”

“And I’m not …” her eyes dropped down, back up, “not used to safe places.”

“I know.” I squeezed her hand. “I know what that’s like, too. Trust me. And I think that might make me the perfect person to help you.”

“I’ve been running for a long time,” she whispered. “And I don’t know if I can stop.”

“I know.” I recognized those armored walls she’d built around herself. I’d seen them in Aldo, in myself. Trust wasn’t easy to give when you’d lived too long looking over your shoulder.

Still, it felt like … something, me and her.

My eyes dropped down to her slightly darker fingers laid in mine, and it was then I noticed the faint trails of scars along her forearms, moving up into her biceps beneath her shirt.

Vanessa pulled back sharply, like she’d noticed me looking, but I merely lifted my eyes back to hers and smiled.

“I’m going to make sure you have someplace safe to stay tonight,” I said, squeezing her hand again.

I was a Mafia don’s wife. If there was one thing I should be able to manage, it was finding a safe house for a night. Or several. That much I could certainly do for this woman.

“That’s the other nice thing about this condo,” I said. “It’s also a safehouse.”