I never thought I’d ever say this, but I’m glad Enzo’s here. I hate his guts, but the man has a lot of pull in the city’s hospitals, having been one of their biggest contributors.

That means as soon as I walk through the glass automatic doors and into the hospital, all I have to do is grab the first guy in scrubs that walks past and tell him, “I have an emergency. It’s Enzo Guerriero’s daughter.”

That’s all.

After that, about a dozen people in blue scrubs wheel a stretcher to the main hospital driveway, where I’ve parked my car, and move Elena onto it.

She’s still wearing that red dress, the same one she wore when I picked her up for our “date” mere days ago—before I took her to my place, before I kept her there against her will, before this whole thing started.

Fuck. I should’ve left her alone. Should’ve kept her out of this. I’m the one responsible for her being hurt, and up until an hour ago, I thought I was doing the right thing.

But it can’t be the right thing when it ends with someone as pure as Elena being shot. Bullets belong in men like me and Enzo. Men who hurt other people for our own personal gain. Not someone like Elena.

This just seems wrong.

Now, the color of Elena’s dress has darkened around her left chest. A darker shade of red. A potentially deadly shade of red.

I’ve only ever prayed three times. The first time was when my mom died, and I wanted her to go to heaven despite all the shit she’d done while she was alive. The second time was when my dad died—same shit. The third time was when I found out about what Enzo had done, and I wanted him dead.

All my prayers were about death. But tonight, as I watch doctors and nurses crowd around Elena, shouting urgently at one another, I pray for life.

I’d give my life if I could and trade it for Elena’s. I add nothing to this world whereas Elena’s mere presence is enough to make humanity as a whole a little bit better.

The blue swarm around Elena so tight that I can barely see her, but I follow them anyway. The stretcher hits a pair of puke-green doors, and the crowd of blue scrubs keeps pushing her through.

When I try to walk past those same doors, a firm hand touches my arm. “Sorry Sir, staff and patients only past these doors.”

I yank my arm free. “I need to get in there.”

“I understand, Sir. But it’s hospital policy. It’s what’s best for the patients,” the man says. He’s wearing a black security uniform, and his eyes are red, probably from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

I glare at the man. There’s so much anger buried inside me that I need to let out on someone. It won’t help Elena, but punching this guy in the face would feel so fucking good right now.

She won’t like it when she wakes up and hears about it, though. And she is waking up. We’ll talk again. I need to make myself someone who’s worthy of seeing her again.

“Yeah, thanks,” I tell the security guard.

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Enzo’s standing at the main reception desk, pounding the counter and yelling at the nurses behind it.

The people waiting for their turns while sitting on plastic chairs are craning their necks to watch him. They’re bored, and Enzo does look out of place, with his disheveled suit and blood stains on his shirt.

I guess I’m not the only one who feels the need to lash out.

“What’s going on?” I rush to the reception desk as my heart pounds so hard I feel the pulses in my temples.

“I’m sorry, Sir. It may not be a problem, but I just wanted to let you know it may be.”

“What might be the problem?” I ask.

“What do you do with all the donations I’ve made? With all that money, you can’t even keep a decent supply of blood?” Enzo’s getting so worked up his face has turned red and he’s spitting all over the counter as he shouts.

“We only get blood by donation, Sir.”

“There’s not enough blood?” I ask the nurse directly.

“We’re dealing with a shortage because of the weather. People aren’t donating because of vacations and college breaks too,” the nurse explains, even as she flinches from Enzo’s torrent of curses. “And we just had a multiple-car accident on the highway, so supplies are low. But we still may have enough. Please don’t worry.”

“You may have enough? That’s not good enough. Not nearly good enough, considering everything I’ve done for you,” Enzo yells.

“Again, I’m sorry, Sir. According to Miss Guerriero’s records, she’s Type O-negative, and unfortunately that’s rare, and that’s what we’re running low on,” the nurse says.

“That’s my blood type. Take mine,” I tell her. Turning around to face the horde of bored people sitting in the waiting room, I announce, “If you’re Type O-negative, please donate your blood. The hospital needs it, and you’re not doing anything anyway.”

“Make it happen,” Enzo says, slamming on the counter. “Bring whatever equipment you need out here and take all the blood you need from these people.”

As the nurses buzz around with activity, I catch Enzo’s eyes, and he nods at me. For once, we’re working toward the same goal.