Page 68 of Breaking Rosalind
I step back. “Let’s wait and see. I’ve seen men die from strangulation, water torture, being burned alive on a bonfire, but this will be the first time I watch someone bleed to death from being a scared little bitch.”
He finally meets my gaze. “Alright.”
I turn to a tray of surgical instruments, itching to pick up the scalpel and start cutting. Any other time, I would relish this chance to perform surgery. Today, it’s at the bottom of a long list. I want to be the one who guts Samson Capello, and if I can’t kill him, then I’d much rather be breaking Rosalind.
“You going to give me a painkiller, Cesare?” Joe’s voice trembles.
“If you hadn’t wasted the last ten minutes crying for Dr. Brunelli, you would have already been prepped and anesthetized,” I say, barely able to conceal my annoyance. “Now, there’s a line of men needing my attention, and we don’t have that luxury.”
Joe trembles, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat. The pleasant scent of antiseptic is now overpowered by the stench of his anxiety.
I pick up the scrub brush, grab his arm, and clean the wound with a sterile solution. Joe winces, his body tensing, his lips parting with a groan. I’m not normally an asshole to my patients, but Joe was one of the bastards who talked shit about me when I was going through withdrawal.
“Flinch, and my scalpel will slip. If I nick that artery…”
“Oh, god,” Joe moans.
“Correct. Right now, I am the only thing that stands between you leaving this truck alive and serving my father in heaven.”
“Like the father, the son, and the holy ghost?” he asks, his voice wavering.
“Enzo Montesano, asshole.”
I hold the scalpel against Joe’s skin and make my first incision. The layers of flesh part beneath my blade, revealing red tissue. Blood bubbles up, filling my senses with its rich, coppery scent.
Joe’s pained whimpers fade into the background of my exhilaration as I part more layers with calm precision and expose the lodged bullet.
I take the forceps, maneuver them into the wound, and grip the bullet. Joe’s muscles tense as I extract the metal and deposit it on the sterile tray with a clink.
“There,” I say. “That wasn’t so bad.”
He exhales, his body slumping with relief.
I pick up a needle and thread. “After I’ve closed the wound, you can go back to the battle.”
Joe’s breath quickens. “Can’t I get a bandage instead of stitches?”
“Sure, if you want to risk infecting your open wound, sepsis, bleeding out, and dying,” I reply. “But if you’d rather have a clean, neat scar as a souvenir of surviving the battle of Alderney Hill, you’ll shut the fuck up and take my needle like a good boy.”
Joe’s eyes flash, his nostrils flaring, but he clamps his mouth shut and nods.
“Smart choice,” I mutter.
I hold the wound together and pierce his flesh with the needle, leaving a trail of fine thread. Joe winces, but doesn’t make a sound. He holds still, gripping the edge of the table as though it’s the only thing keeping him on this side of the veil. Lucky for him, I take pride in my work.
After the final stitch, I secure the thread with a knot and step back to admire the perfectly closed wound. The edges of his skin align perfectly, promising a minimal scar.
Joe exhales, his body relaxing against the fold-up chair. “Thanks, Cesare.”
Nodding, I apply a sterile bandage over the wound and slip off my gloves. “Remember this the next time you and your pals want to call me a liability or a weak link.”
He pales, his features falling slack. “Uh... Yeah. Sorry about that. Nobody meant any harm. We all talk about each other to blow off steam. To cope with all the stress.”
“Get the fuck out and call in the next patient.” I flick my head toward the back door and dispose of the gloves.
With another mumbled apology, Joe snatches up his clothes and stumbles out, not even bothering to dress. As I clear up the sterile tray and discard the used supplies, a large hand clamps on my shoulder.
“Well done, son.”