Chapter 3 - Blood on the Leather Seats
“She’s... with me,” Dominic managed to rasp out, his hand feebly grabbing Vincent’s lapel. “Get her in the car, Vincent. Now. That’s an order.”
Vincent hesitated for a fraction of a second, his lethal gaze scanning Sylvia’s terrified face, her mud-stained clothes, and her absolute lack of tactical threat. He let out a harsh curse into the rain, reached out with one massive, calloused hand, grabbed Sylvia by the arm, and shoved her unceremoniously into the spacious leather back seat of the Mercedes.
An instant later, Vincent loaded Dominic onto the leather seat beside her, slammed the heavy door shut, and leaped into the driver’s seat.
He put the Mercedes in reverse, slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and the heavy luxury sedan roared backward out of the alley, its tires throwing up fountains of water as it spun onto the main street and vanished into the storm.
Inside the dark interior of the vehicle, the sound of the rain was reduced to a soft, muffled thrumming against reinforced bulletproof glass.
Sylvia pressed herself against the far door, her whole body shaking violently as adrenaline surged and receded through her bloodstream in nauseating waves. She looked down at her hands. They were covered in dark, sticky blood—Dominic’s blood—and white cake flour from the bakery floor.
Beside her, Dominic lay slumped back against the premium leather upholstery. His head was tilted backward against the headrest, his breathing shallow, rapid, and raspy. The pale shade of his skin had turned a sickening, waxy gray.
“Press down on it,” a voice barked from the front.
Sylvia jumped, looking up into the rearview mirror. Vincent was driving with terrifying skill, weaving the heavy sedan through the dark, rain-slicked streets of Boston at dangerous speeds, his eyes constantly darting to the mirror to monitor the dark road behind them.
“What?” Sylvia gasped, her voice trembling uncontrollably.
“I said press down on his wound!” Vincent yelled back over his shoulder. “He’s hemorrhaging! Keep pressure on the entry point until we reach the doctor, or he’s going to bleed out on my leather seats!”
Sylvia looked back at Dominic. The dark crimson stain had spread entirely across his crisp white shirt, dripping down onto his tailored trousers.
She was a diner waitress, not a trauma nurse. She had spent her life avoiding violence, avoiding danger, avoiding the dark underbelly of the city that her ex-husband had flirted with before he abandoned them.
Yet as she looked at the unconscious man beside her—the man who had given her daughter a cake, the man who had thrown his own body over hers to absorb flying bullets—she knew she could not simply sit there and watch him die.
Sylvia slid across the leather seat.
She reached out with both hands, placed them directly over the blood-soaked linen napkins still pressed against Dominic’s lower right abdomen, and leaned her entire body weight forward.
Dominic’s eyes flew open with a sharp, gasping intake of air.
A ragged groan escaped his throat, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles jumped beneath his pale skin. His large, calloused hand snapped up like a steel trap, wrapping tightly around Sylvia’s slender wrist.
His grip was terrifyingly strong, even in his diminished state.
“Easy... easy,” Sylvia whispered, tears streaming down her face as she looked directly into his dark, pained eyes. “I’m sorry... I’m sorry, but I have to hold pressure. You’re bleeding too fast.”
Dominic stared at her through a haze of agony and fading consciousness. His dark pupils dilated as he searched her face, recognizing her through the pain.
“The... the girl,” he rasped out, his voice barely a whisper against the hum of the engine. “Did you... get the cake?”
Sylvia felt her heart break into a thousand pieces. Here was a man dying of a gunshot wound, fleeing armed assassins in the dead of night, asking about a child’s birthday treat.
“It got destroyed,” Sylvia whispered softly, her eyes swimming with tears. “It dropped on the floor during the shooting.”
Dominic closed his eyes slowly, a faint, bitter sigh escaping his chest.
“I’m... sorry,” he murmured. “I wanted... her to have a good birthday.”
“Don't talk,” Sylvia pleaded, pressing her hands down firmer, feeling the horrifying warmth of his blood seeping through her fingers. “Please just stay quiet and keep breathing.”
Dominic’s hand slowly relaxed around her wrist, his fingers slipping down to rest loosely over her hand. His breathing grew slower, heavier, until he drifted into deep unconsciousness.
“How’s he holding up?” Vincent called from the front seat as he pulled the Mercedes into an underground parking garage situated beneath an unassuming brick warehouse near the industrial docks of South Boston.
“He’s unconscious!” Sylvia yelled back, her voice laced with panic. “His heart is beating very fast, and he’s so cold!”
The sedan came to a screeching stop inside the dimly lit garage.
Before the engine even cut off, the heavy side doors of the garage vanished into motion as three men in dark clothing stepped forward. Among them was an elderly man carrying a worn silver medical kit, wearing a blood-stained surgical apron over his street clothes.
“Get him out!” the doctor ordered crisply in a thick Italian accent. “Move him straight to the surgical table inside! We have less than ten minutes before his organs begin to shut down from shock!”
The men efficiently pulled Dominic from the rear seat, placing him onto a wheeled gurney that had been prepped beside the car, and wheeled him rapidly through a set of heavy double doors into the back of the warehouse.
Vincent remained behind, standing beside the open door of the Mercedes.
He reached into his dark jacket, pulled out a white linen cloth, and wiped his hands before turning his hard, brutal gaze upon Sylvia.
Sylvia remained frozen on the back seat, her hands stained deep red, her clothes soaked with rain and blood, looking small and utterly helpless in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the garage.
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Vincent leaned down, resting his massive forearms against the roof of the car as he looked in at her.
“Alright, lady,” Vincent said, his tone devoid of warmth. “It’s time for you to tell me who the hell you are, how you ended up in Belladonna Patisserie after hours, and why my boss took a bullet keeping you alive.”
