Jackson rocked back on his heels. “I didn’t think we had Russian mafia in the area.”
“You don’t,” Essie said. “The Florida syndicate operates out of Miami. This particular family’s organization is based in California.”
“What’s the woman’s name?”
“Antonella—no, wait, that’s not right.” Her brows drew down in concentration. “Antonina. Yeah, that’s it. Antonina Petrov.”
“You don’t happen to have a pic—” The rest of Jackson’s sentence got cut off by an alert from the outdoor perimeter sensor. His gaze cut to Navarre, still standing guard by the window, who gave him a confirming nod. “That’s Pinto,” he told Essie. “The dude I told you about. He’ll have you good as new in no time.”
Chapter 7
Some habits never trulydied.
Even though Essie knew she was safe, her senses remained at a heightened state of alert. She’d already mapped out the house’s exits, as well as every nearby item that could be used in a pinch as a weapon. Not that she’d actually need them, given the gun still strapped to her ankle, and the armed men with extensive military training on the premises, but it never hurt to be prepared.
She stole a glance at Jackson, and like so many times before, she felt the pull of attraction, a flare of heat, and the bitter reminders from her past that ensured she’d never act on either one. From a tactical standpoint, it made sense to come here, but her heart was having second thoughts. Unfortunately, it was too late to leave, so she put her emotions on full lockdown and focused on the sharp, insistent throb where Vaughn’s knife had sliced her abdomen.
The front door opened, and Navarre walked back inside with another man who must be the medic they’d called.
Wearing a red T-shirt over dark jeans and running shoes, the guy had a lean, fit build, with short, dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes that hinted at empathy and intelligence. Good-looking, but not her type. A row of piercings lined his left ear, while a simple braid of brown leather circled the corded muscles of his tanned right wrist. He carried a bulging black medical bag similar to those used by EMTs.
Jackson crossed the room, gripped the other man’s hand and did a combination handshake, fist-bump, and one-armed bro hug with a double back tap, and then led him to the couch. “Essie, this is Pinto, the best damn medic I’ve ever met. He’s going to take real good care of you.”
That kind of endorsement carried weight with her, because she knew that Jackson had extensive experience with field medics during his time in the Army. In spite of the pain, she mustered a smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Hey, no problem, but don’t thank me until after I’ve patched you up.” His voice carried a hint of New Jersey, and it made her think of an uncle she hadn’t seen since she was a teenager.
Come to think of it, she didn’t know whether Uncle Warren was still alive. She should probably feel bad about that.
Over the years, she’d missed a number of family events: birthdays, weddings, holiday celebrations. A funeral or two. That was the price of working undercover: long periods of time away from family and friends with no way of keeping in touch. Absence made the heart grow fonder, but that distance put a lot of strain on even the strongest relationships.
She cast another glance at Jackson, and a barrage of memories invaded her thoughts with the grace of a raging tsunami. Between her assignments and his deployments, it was a wonder they’d lasted as long as they had. The long stretches apart had taken its toll. Keeping so many secrets made it worse. That hadn’t stopped her from trying to salvage their marriage, for all the good it had done.
Pinto knelt beside the couch and set the bag on the carpet. This close, she caught a faint whiff of cologne, and saw the hint of a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt. He gestured to her blood-stained blouse. “I take it this is the source of your trouble. Mind if I take a peek?”
“Sure, go ahead.” It wasn’t like she was worried about him doing anything inappropriate, especially not with Jackson standing only a few feet away.
Pinto pushed up her shirt until the knife wound was fully visible. He let out a low whistle. “Must have been some cat that scratched you.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
Carefully, he inspected the wound, his touch so light she almost didn’t feel it, and when she did, it barely hurt. Thought lines dashed across his forehead. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this is going to need at least ten stitches, maybe more. You sure you don’t want to—”
“No.” She cut him off. “We’ve already had this discussion. I’m not going to the hospital. And no, I don’t mind if I end up with a scar.” What was one more in the grand scheme of things? It wasn’t like she was planning a trip to the beach anytime soon.
Pinto looked at Essie as though she’d just insulted him. “What, you think I’m some sort of hack who’s gonna stitch you together like Frankenstein’s monster? What I’m worried about is this shit’s going to hurt, and I’m fresh out of lidocaine. The best I can do is ice it down before I start stitching.”
“That’s fine.” Actually, it wasn’t, but considering there weren’t any other options, she’d suck it up and deal with it. “I have a high tolerance for pain.”
Pinto made a skeptical sound. “Yeah, that’s what most people say. Then the needle breaks the skin and all bets are off.”
Pain made her cranky, and it took some effort to hold back what she actually wanted to say. It wasn’t his fault, and she knew better than to take her frustrations out on a man she just met, a man who’d agreed to patch her up with no questions asked. “Believe me, I’m not one of those people.”
His gaze went to Jackson, who shrugged, and then back to her. “All right, you’re the boss; don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
While Jackson went to the kitchen for an ice pack, Pinto prepped the wound. Trying his best not to cause her discomfort, he moved with a practiced efficiency, as if he’d done this type of procedure countless times before. It bolstered her confidence in his abilities, and the tension knotting the back of her neck loosened a notch or two.
He’d just finished cleaning the wound when Jackson returned with the ice pack, a bottle of vodka, and two shot glasses. Jackson handed her the ice pack, and she sucked in a breath at the shock of freezing cold against her skin.
