Bratva Boss’s Secret Triplets by Bella King

Chapter 16

April

Ishouldn’t be worried about Rebel, but my maternal instincts seem to extend much further than to the three babies growing in my belly. He’s like a baby, a big giant one who does stupid things, and so I treat him like one, pulling him down into a seat while we wait for his doctor to arrive. If I let him stand here much longer, he’d probably collapse onto the tile floor and bash his skull open. I know for a fact that if he did do such a thing, he would never own up to it. He’s a danger to himself if I ever saw one.

Against my better judgment, I sit with Rebel and make sure he doesn’t die until I hear the sound of footsteps coming from down the hall, light and rapid with eager intent. I rise as a small man in a lab coat enters the lobby, doing my best not to look like a total mess in the presence of such an esteemed individual.

“Dr. Paul,” he says, smiling as he extends his hand to me.

“April,” I gush, looking nervously back at Rebel.

Dr. Paul shakes his head, eyeing Rebel the way that his mother probably ought to. “What mess have you gotten yourself into this time?” he asks.

Rebel lifts his head weakly, his pupils small and unfocused as he gazes up at the doctor. “Caught a bullet for this young lady,” he replies. “You might want to take a look at her first. Her head might be screwed on wrong or something.”

“Nonsense,” I snap, dismissing his ridiculous claim before turning back to Dr. Paul. “Can you please see that he doesn’t die? He got shot in the arm and shoulder I believe. That motherfucker stitched himself up in my bathroom with dental floss.”

“The minty kind,” Rebel adds with a grin.

Dr. Paul shoots Rebel a stern glance. “I’ll take care of him,” he says to me. “You can come with us to my office and wait there. You’ll get lost in a place like this. Lord knows I have more times than I can count.”

I allow myself a small laugh before grabbing Rebel out of the velvet couch in the lobby and pulling him up with the help of Dr. Paul. At this point, Rebel doesn’t even try to assist more than just dragging his feet along the floor. I’m not sure if he can do much of anything anymore, but he’s still conscious.

“Must’ve been a surprise attack,” Dr. Paul says as we drag Rebel down the hall.

“It was a surprise for both of us,” I reply. “Some lunatic broke into my apartment, and –“

“Your boyfriend,” Rebel interjects.

“For god’s sake, would you shut the hell up about that? He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Not once I’m through with him,” he mumbles.

Dr. Paul has no reaction to our conversation, as though he’s heard everything before. I’m sure having to deal with Rebel on the daily is a wild enough ride. I wonder if anything would surprise him at this point.

“How long have you been working here?” I ask the doctor, attempting to divert the subject away from the budding argument between rebel and I.

“Oh, about seven years now,” he muses. “I must say, though, I haven’t seen Rebel in quite so bad shape as right now. He’s normally only coming in with a minor graze or at most, a couple of broken ribs.”

“I’m hard to kill,” Rebel brags.

Dr. Paul and I exchange a glance, both of us rolling our eyes at Rebel and his unwavering bravado.

“Okay Rebel, I’m going to start peeling away the gauze. It's going to hurt. Try to put on a brave face for the pretty lady, okay?” Dr. Paul says.

Rebel scoffs. “Do you remember that one time I was dragged back here and left on the sidewalk in a sleeping bag with three of my fingers almost torn off? I’ll be fine. Just make sure April doesn’t pass out from seeing all the blood,” Rebel replies, doing his best to retain his remaining machismo as his blood loss climbs to his higher thinking capabilities. I can see him becoming more vulnerable.

“Girls see more blood than guys,” I add, pouring salt in his proverbial wounds.

“Whatever.”

Dr. Paul snaps on a pair of gloves and begins to tear away the gauze. Rebel’s eyes flutter from pain for a split second, but he does the best he can to not break in front of me. In a way, it’s kind of sweet that he keeps projecting such an impenetrable persona for me, even after literally being shot.

Once the doctor peels away the rest of the gauze, a juicy black and red wound is revealed, crudely stitched together with dental floss. There are only about ten stitches where fifteen would have been more appropriate, but I can’t say I blame him for stabbing himself fewer times than is recommended. Despite my comment earlier about girls seeing blood, I would have never had the stones to stitch myself up.

“God damn it, Rebel,” sighs Dr. Paul as he gazes at the wound. “You totally fucked the margins on the entry wound, it’s going to be even harder for me to suture without leaving a nasty scar,” he continues as he fishes around in a nearby drawer for a sterile package containing a small pair of surgical scissors and forceps.

“Aw, sorry I wasn’t thinking of you when I was trying to not die in this girl’s apartment bathroom, Nathan,” Rebel replies, wincing as the doctor begins to cut at the floss in his arm.

“Hey, you and I are not on a first-name basis until you start paying me more,” Dr. Paul says sarcastically with maybe a hint of seriousness and annoyance in his tone.

After removing the floss and digging around for the bullet with no success, the doctor wipes away some of the gross debris from the surrounding skin of the wound. He’s set up a little blue towel on a small table with what I can assume are sterile supplies for cleaning, suturing and dressing the wound, all laid out in order of use.

For someone who seems to have their shit together, I really wonder what got Dr. Nathan Paul into this mess.

“God damn it,” mutters Rebel as the doctor grabs a needle holder attached to a hooked suture needle the dime. Fine purple filament follows the needle from the little table to Rebel’s arm, and Dr. Paul begins to throw in the first stitch.

Watching Rebel’s nearly unwavering resolve as he is repeatedly stabbed in the arm makes me wonder what kind of father he would be to our three babies if I ever decided to give him the chance to raise them. Would he teach them not to cry when they’re hurt? Would he teach them basic first-aid? Would he allow them to make mistakes?

Thoughts of parenthood with Rebel start to take over, the mysteries of domestic bliss under the dark umbrella of organized crime filling up my head. As much as it frustrates me, the thought doesn’t bother me so much.