Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Bullets zipped overhead.
Sharp, jagged edges of broken glass cut into my hands and knees.
Kaz was the first to reach the window. He used his body to shield mine as he helped me to stand up.
More men must have kept coming in because Tisha and Lemon continued to cover us, shooting with no mercy.
“I have you.” Kaz boosted me up towards the opening, his hands steady despite the craziness we just went through.
Fast, I climbed through the window.
Cold night air hit me like a shock.
I turned back to help Kaz.
Our hands clasped tightly as he made his way through the jagged opening.
Thank you, Jesus. Thank you.
“We thought we lost you.” Lemon pointed to the back of the alley where a car sat.
But there was no time for lengthy reunions or heartfelt thanks.
I squinted.
At the end of the alley, Kaz’s men around the car were shooting at people I couldn’t see.
Once Kaz got in the alley along with us, we rushed forward.
I sneered. “They’re fucking fighting us outside too?!”
Tisha kept his gun ahead of us. “The Cartel sent hundreds of men for us tonight.”
Kaz tore off his ripped, bloodied jacket and slung it on the ground as if ready to fight more people. “And Valentina? Is she okay?”
“Y-yes.” Tisha didn’t look his way. “But. . .she is badly injured and on the way to the hospital.”
Lemon turned to me, and her bottom lip quivered. “They shot Max, Emily. He’s on the way to the hospital too.”
My world spun as my eyes watered. “W-what?”
My legs wobbled stopping me from walking in a straight line.
Kaz whipped his arm around my waist to help me keep my balance.
I glared at Lemon. “W-where did they shoot him?”
Lemon’s face tinted red. “Several times in his chest.”
“No. No. No.”
Chapter thirty-four
A Prayer to God, a Promise to the Devil
Kazimir
The hospital’s sterile environment was jarring, with its bright white walls and floors reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights.
Amidst the constant beeping and buzzing of medical equipment, I stood in the center of a cold, clinical hallway.
The smell of antiseptics hung heavily in the space.
All around, the air vibrated with urgency.
Doctors, nurses, and others in scrubs rushed by in a blur with their faces set in grim determination. A relentless march of healing and hope, pain and perseverance. Many issued orders in sharp, clipped tones.
Surely, we were keeping the hospital staff busy. Over eighty of our people were here. Some Harlem Crew, others Brotherhood.
Meanwhile, my gaze remained fixed on the large window in front of me that offered a glimpse into Maxwell’s room in the ICU.
A constant flow of professionals darted in and out of his room, their hands moving deftly as they adjusted IV lines, reviewed charts, or offered quick words to my mouse.
The air-conditioned breeze hit my bare, wounded skin.
On my left, a nurse worked meticulously to stitch a deep gash in my side where a bullet had lodged itself before being expertly removed.
She cleared her throat and looked up at me. “Please lift your arm, sir.”
I raised it.
My men guarded several feet away on both sides with their guns out, ready to shoot any cartel members attempting to finish what they started.
Besides the nurse stitching me up, another moved around to my right arm, cleaning cuts and abrasions with a gentle yet firm touch. The sting of antiseptic on my raw wounds forced me to grit my teeth.
The pain wasn’t just a single note; it was an orchestra of sharp stabs, dull throbs, and searing burns that played across my body, each wound a different instrument of torment.
But it all paled in comparison to the gut-wrenching sight of Emily’s anguish.
My heart constricted in my chest, aching at her suffering.
Mysh. . .
In Maxwell’s room, her silhouette was a study in despair, shoulders slumped and body quivering with sobs that even the thick glass couldn’t completely muffle.
I returned my focus to Maxwell, lying unconscious on the hospital bed.
My gaze roved over his bandaged chest, the IV lines snaking in and out of his skin, the heart monitor casting an eerie glow on his face.
Off to his side, he had a maze of wires and tubes connecting his body to other machines that beeped and whirred in a constant, grim rhythm.
It was the soundtrack to our current nightmare.
No sign of movement came from him, just the mechanical rise and fall of his chest.
I thought about the bullets that had torn through him, and this heavy weight pressed down on my sanity.
The one that hit his chest had been the most terrifying, given the proximity to his heart and other organs. His doctor was concerned about pneumothorax—a condition that could collapse his lungs.
One bullet hit Maxwell’s arm. Another pierced his thigh.
Thankfully, both went straight through.
No foreign objects were left inside, but the potential damage to muscles, bones, and blood vessels could not be underestimated.