Chapter 2. The Ambush

MYKAELA

[Mariangela, Umbria. 2 years earlier]

Answers. I needed real answers. Right now we all did.

Why did these people get hurt? Not one of them seemed eager to explain.

What happened to the others was even more dreadful. Just inhumane.

Did the local cops find out about the ambush yet? Who wanted to murder all of them in broad daylight? The list of reasons must be lengthy. A crime this violent couldn't be just a case of mistaken identity.

At times, the fine line between a horrible dream and my own reality would blur. This morning was a prime example.

Bloody. Nightmarish. The total opposite of what I pictured when I said yes to Miles.

Did his parents call the cops yet? They still wouldn't say who caused all of this. Maybe they all thought the secrets I shouldn't be privy to should stay that way:

Well-kept secrets.

Miles didn't know anything. Or did he lie to me? But why?

I took a deep breath. My face mask now smelled of coffee and blood. "Shit." I leaned against the cold wall. No conscious, sensible part of me signed up for this. Heck. I shouldn't even be here! Vacationing in this remote estate with my best friend and his parents... Pretending my own father wasn't dying in the ICU.

My brain had been racing beyond my control, just making up a dozen scenarios every freakin' minute. The nagging voice in my head kept saying being stuck here with Miles, his family, and these injured strangers was...all my fault.

Must be the shock. Too much stress. Uncertainties.

This off-the-cuff countryside trip with Miles was supposed to be a quick one. Easy. Fun. No stress...

Just two friends hanging out with his folks on his birthday. "It's just two days. Unwind a bit," Miles promised yesterday.

1) Celebrate his birthday with his parents and cousins

2) Act like we're boyfriend-girlfriend and get to know the Falco family

3) Say goodbye to Miles and book a flight

4) Go back to New York to check up on my dad

My list was simple. Doable. Not at all impossible to complete in a few days. Until all this.

After the Falcos' security staff hauled this bloody, unconscious guy down here in this dim basement, I just knew this makeshift operating room would be where I'd spend the rest of my day. Not by choice.

Darn. I should've listened to my gut. Should've been more honest with my best friend. Should've just said no to Miles the first time a sense of creeping dread twisted a knife-like ache deep into me. "I'm coming home, Dad," I murmured, squeezing my eyes shut until my vision went pitch-black. "Please wait another night."

"You okay, Miss?"

Okay?

If "okay" meant shook to my core but not to the point of a nervous breakdown, then sure. I was fine. "Yeah. We're good. For now."

"Do you need help?"

"No. He's doing better. The bleeding's stopped. Thanks." I turned my back to the two men watching me from the other side of the room.

Like some of the surgical tools I used, two steel tables were haphazardly placed in the middle of this dingy storage room. Old, but not filthy. Still in good condition. The other rooms looked smaller and less organized, hence my decision to do the emergency surgeries in here.

So far nobody died yet. Thank God! No one within my peripheral vision, at least.

What a freaking nightmare...

Despite the numbness in my legs, I cleaned up some of the mess, pacing around the room to walk off the daze. The barrage of negative thoughts just ruined my efforts to seem calm. The knots in my chest remained, but nothing unexpected.

With another deep breath, I wiped sweat off my face with the sleeves of my dress. Duty called. So I had to help. I was not the right person for the job. Yeah. They knew that. But it was me or some paramedics who'd be at least an hour late.

Well, sure--I was trained in first aid. Completed a couple of hospital trainings and all. But I was still years away from being a licensed physician. And so undeniably far from a trauma surgeon. I wasn't a licensed anything in this country.

For now we could only hope every one of us out here stayed alive and safe. They all looked as if they expected I could just stitch up the guy and send him home with no qualms. No hiccups. No threats of bad infections. Or other complications. As if I did this on a regular basis. Like all this was part of my day-to-day.

Someone coughed.

I turned to the armed men standing near the door.

"Scusi, Signorina." [Sorry, Miss.]

I stared at the guard who spoke--one of the security staff who helped me stop Mystery Guy from bleeding out all over the place. "Yes?"

"Signore called us. We have, erm, meeting upstairs. We also need to check with the other staff."

Ah... "Signore" as in Mr. Falco, their employer and Miles' dad. Mr. Falco probably wanted his security team to regroup. Discuss their next plan of action and reevaluate our current situation.

"Yeah. We can handle it. He's okay for now." I gestured to the wounded, bandaged, half-conscious guy somewhat grunting on the bigger steel table. Italian Mystery Guy. "Please call me once the paramedics and ambulance arrive."

"Signore is saying we stay here," the guard with the cross tattoo on his arm reminded, his Italian accent thicker than the other guy's. "All of us."

Great. Another reminder that we're all trapped in this estate. "Yeah. Sure," I sighed. "For now. We need to transfer them to the rooms upstairs."

"Please wait."

Once I gave a half-meant nod, the dark-haired guard slightly bowed his head before they exited the room.

Mystery Guy's tightlipped and sweaty personal bodyguard stood closer to the table. We watched the patient closely. The fairly tall and muscular bodyguard glanced at me every ten seconds or so.

Was he waiting for new instructions from me?

"Sir, you okay?" I asked.

He nodded.

"It's fine if you want to go upstairs or make a call to check on something, or someone," I tried to say as calmly as I could. "You should call for another ambulance to fetch you two. Just to be sure."

The bodyguard stared at me with a slight frown, a look of uncertainty. "I called his brother."

"Oh. Good. Is he coming?"

"No."

No? "But he knows about, um, what happened. Right?"

The guy faintly nodded. "His assistant already called some people."

The assistant. So, that's it? The brother wasn't even gonna drop by?

"I will keep an eye on him, until the plane arrives." With his arms crossed, the bodyguard leaned closer to his boss.

A complete stranger. Not a local, but also Italian, based on his accent and looks.

"Right," I muttered.

Plane? Whoa. Mystery Guy's brother had a private jet?

"I just talked to the pilot. A medical team will be here later," the bodyguard said flatly.

"Ah. Good." But how late?

"Thank you again, Miss..."

"Mykaela. Or just 'Kel'," I replied with a quick smile. "Sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"Berto."

"Ah. Nice to meet you."

"His name is Lorenzio. Tomassini. Just call him 'Enzo'."

"Okay." Tomassini? Familiar. "So, uh, he's doing better, as he's not bleeding anymore. But like I said, he needs to see a doctor ASAP." I glanced at Mystery Guy. I took off the bloody surgical gloves and flung them into the trash bag.

"Can we move him now?"

"Yeah. He needs a comfortable bed. Clean sheets and clothes. Fluids. Proper rest." My hand clenched around the edge of the steel table as we waited for Mr. Tomassini to open his eyes. My second and hopefully last patient.

Tall guy. Early 30s. Fit. Tan skin. Wavy dark brown hair. Sweaty.

The almost fatal head and neck injury weren't the only problems we'd be dealing with this afternoon. He could be falling asleep, but his deep scowl and the constant fidgeting of his bare torso and limbs assured me he'd stay awake for another hour or so.

Unless I gave him something that would knock him out. "Can't give him stronger pain medications. Sorry."

"Alright." Berto leaned over his half-naked boss and mumbled something in Italian.

Soiled blood smeared the cemented floor around Mr. Tomassini. Mostly his. Some used and unused medical supplies lay scattered on the other table.

I should do a more thorough medical history. A more clinical interview. Jot down more specific details about them before explaining my treatment plan.

Except, Mr. Tomassini didn't look chatty. His eyes remained shut. Maybe he wanted to sleep the rest of the day. For someone who lost that much blood, he should.

"Thanks. You did great back there. You saved them both."

"It's my job." Berto gave a tight smile. "You work for the Falcos?"

"No."

"But, you are Maximiliano's friend?"

"Yeah." Best friend, to be more accurate. Actually, Miles and I were a little more than friends on vacation with his family, especially after last night. But these strangers wouldn't care to ask.

"Thank you for taking care of everything." Berto sighed, his faint accent reminding me of the owner of this house.

No. Scratch that--this incredible manor included three concrete storeys of beautiful Victorian architecture, give or take 15 bedrooms, a pool, an insanely huge garden with a labyrinth that could be older than me, and maybe even a few secret rooms only Ricchar Falco knew about.

Ricchar, our host, was Miles' first cousin and the VP for Operations of their family business. Actually the Falcos owned at least three companies.

"No problem. Anyway, we have to check on him and his bandages every now and then. Monitor his vitals and all." I glanced down at Mr. Tomassini. "Where's your boss?" I asked the other guard in the corner.

The guy stood by the door with a black handgun. Probably younger than me, but old enough to be working for the Falcos. Crew cut. Poker face. Bloodstained shirt. Dark pants.

I should talk in Italian, but they didn't seem to mind that my brain was just too exhausted to translate. "Ricchar, I mean."

"In the other room with Mrs. Falco," the guy replied with a slight accent.

"Right." Mrs. Falco as in Ricchar's wife--my first patient this morning. Thank God I didn't have to stitch up all of her wounds. The blood transfusion I facilitated with Ricchar should be done in a few. I should check on them.

"You need anything else, Miss?"

"No. But we gotta try again."

"I'm sorry?" Berto frowned and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his wrinkled sleeve.

"Call for another ambulance. I stitched 'em up but they need proper medical attention. Tests. Medications. Constant monitoring. Proper bedside care." Honestly I might just panic-cry if some internal complications or a scary infection happened. I didn't need a medical degree to know there's a 50-50 chance that kind of thing would happen soon.

"My phone's dead." The man sighed again.

"Where's his?" I nodded to his boss.

"Not here."

"He lost it?" I glanced around the room.

"Left it in the car," Berto muttered. "Intentionally."

Huh? "Why?" Oh. Wait. Bringing Mr. Tomassini's phone out here would put him at risk? Again? "Enzo wanted to leave his phone there?"

"Yes."

"Berto." Mr. Tomassini groaned but stopped fidgeting on the steel table. His voice remained hoarse as he talked to his bodyguard in Italian.

"You okay, Mr. Tomassini?" I stepped closer to his head once they were done talking.

The guy stared at me with a frown that creased his dark and thick brows, as if he didn't understand the question. Or he forgot who I was and the things I just did to him the past hour.

I was 100% sure he spoke fluent English, though, and with a Londoner's accent. We kind of chatted half an hour ago while I bandaged him up. "You should call your family. Tell them you were in a vehicular accident," I suggested. Not a minor one, too.

If his bodyguard wasn't exaggerating earlier, then it was a full-on ambush that nearly left them for dead in the middle of nowhere. This place was the definition of countryside life, just with a multimillion-dollar estate in between two mountain ranges.

"Sincerely doubt it was an accident," Mr. Tomassini strained to say without scrunching up his nose. His pale hand still clutched his bandaged shoulder.

"You have two gunshot wounds, but you're stable now. Please don't touch the bandages and try to keep still," I advised.

The guy blinked at me. Barely moved.

"We'll take you upstairs. But first we have to check your blood pressure again. Then I'll inspect your bandages."

Mr. Tomassini stared at the ceiling.

"You sure you don't have any allergies to certain meds?"

"Yes."

"Great." I nodded.

The guy shut his eyes again. A scowl wrinkled his tan forehead and pale lips, his right hand gripping his bloodstained shoulder. He didn't look dirty when he got here, save for the blood on his face, neck, and upper torso. But to avoid scary infections, I had to disinfect all of his injuries with his bodyguard's help.

Thank goodness his bodyguard wasn't dumb and put tourniquets on him before Enzo bled out in the backseat. Thanks to his alertness and Kevlar, Berto only sustained a minor head wound and some bruises on his upper body.

What really happened out there? Who wanted them dead?

Was Enzo a criminal? Or an innocent victim?

Why would anyone want him killed?