Page 64 of Filthy Little Lies

“When I was having a drink back at the house, your body locked up when I poured a second. Do you even notice how easily your body tells on you?”

I don’t. Obviously, or I wouldn’t have done it.

After another half hour goes by and the guys are still talking, my feet start aching from standing in the kitchen. Gabriel has gone down to the “operation room” to check on the progress. When he comes back up, the controlled devil is back.

“Another hour,” he tells his crew. “The bullet nicked an artery. He’s working on the bleeding now.”

The men nod, quiet falling over them.

“I’m so sorry, Gabriel.” I grab onto his arm. “This is my fault.”

He turns confused eyes on me. “What are you talking about?”

“You only got involved with Ricci because of me. If I hadn’t gone into your shop that day⁠—”

“This isn’t your fault.” He cuts me off before I can finish explaining. “Ricci thought he could use our situation for his benefit, and when I rejected his offer, he made some bad decisions.”

“Right, but if I⁠—”

“Savvy, he was going to make those moves anyway; he just thought he had an easy win by using the situation with you.”

I search his face to see if he’s bullshitting me. But as far as I know he never has, so I’m not sure what it looks like.

“It’s late, and Messi’s going to be a while still. The front room has a comfortable couch and a TV; why don’t you relax in there?”

He walks me through a short hallway to the front of the apartment. He flips on the television and finds Schitt’s Creek, pulling up the next episode from where I’d stopped.

“How did you know this was the right episode?” I take the remote from him as I sink into the well-worn couch cushions.

“There’s very little about you that I don’t know.” He glances back toward the kitchen where his men are laughing. “Relax in here, Messi should be done soon.”

I nod, planning to focus on the TV and not the fact a man could very well be dying on the floor below.

I’m asleep before the first scene finishes. When I wake, it’s to Gabriel lifting me from the couch and cradling me against his chest. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his neck and snuggle into him.

Then I remember where we are and why.

“Joey!” I jerk, and Gabriel has to tighten his grip on me.

“He’s fine. Messi stopped the bleeding, got the bullet out. He’s going to need a lot of rest and time to heal, but he’s going to be fine.”

Someone opens the back door for us, and Gabriel carries me down the back steps and through the small alleyway to where he parked the car behind the garage.

“You talked to him?” I ask as he settles me into the seat and pulls the seatbelt over my chest.

“I did. He’s tired and he’s hurting, but he’ll live.”

I blow out a long breath. “Thank god.”

He smiles and finishes locking the seatbelt in place.

I’m half asleep again when the car dips as he climbs in and the engine fires up.

“If he had died…” I don’t finish my thought, mostly because I’m not sure what I’m asking.

Gabriel rests his hand on my knee as he drives us home.

“He didn’t.”