I Took Five Bullets Because I Tripped Over Hot Tea — Now A Crime Boss Won’t Let Me Go

Part 1

I didn’t jump in front of Brenda Rossi because I harbored some secret hero complex.

Heroes are idiots.

I moved because a stray drop of scalding Darjeeling tea splashed onto my wrist.

I shifted my weight instinctively, pulling my patient’s leg, and then the air tore open.

Five rounds hit like sledgehammers.

No stinging accompanied the impact, just blunt, suffocating force.

Now the city’s most untouchable syndicate boss owes his mother’s life to a chronically underpaid physical therapist, and he absolutely hates it.

Tuesday mornings always tasted like chalk and cheap peppermint.

I chewed on a piece of gum that had lost its flavor an hour ago, adjusting the resistance bands around Brenda’s left ankle.

“Push against my hand, Mrs. Rossi.”

The elderly woman scowled, her aged skin stretching over prominent cheekbones.

She smelled of expensive lavender water and mothballs, a scent clinging to the heavy silk of her blouse.

“You are a tyrant, Megan.”

I glanced down at my scuffed orthotic sneakers and offered a dry, empty smile.

“My lumbar needs the support, Brenda.”

We were in the private conservatory of a sprawling estate just outside city limits.

It was a glass-walled monument to wealth, filled with orchids that required more maintenance than my entire apartment building.

I cared entirely about the $55 an hour I was getting paid out of pocket to rehabilitate a 70-year-old woman’s shattered hip.

Brenda finally pushed, her frail leg trembling against my calloused palm.

I leaned back on my heels, feeling the familiar dull ache in my lower lumbar region.

Through the glass, the sky was the color of a bruised plum threatening rain.

I let my mind wander to the leftover pasta sitting in my fridge, calculating if I had enough milk left for morning coffee.

It was utterly mundane.

The glass didn’t shatter gracefully.

The panes exploded into glittering dust.

A deafening concussive boom sucked the air right out of my lungs, replacing it with the sharp metallic tang of dust and ozone.

My brain simply registered a sudden violent change in atmospheric pressure.

A ceramic pot violently disintegrated three feet away, spraying damp soil across the terracotta tiles.

Brenda screamed a thin, reedy sound that barely carried over the roar of shattering panes.

My reaction wasn’t a calculated dive of martyrdom.

I was kneeling off balance, my hand still clamped around Brenda’s ankle.

When the second volley of shots shattered the glass directly behind us, Brenda jerked in panic, knocking a heavy silver tea tray off the side table.

The scalding liquid splashed directly onto my exposed forearm.

I flinched hard, throwing my weight sideways to escape the burning tea.

I twisted, pulling myself up and over Brenda’s seated form just as the gunmen adjusted their aim.

The first bullet took me in the right shoulder.

It felt like someone had swung a baseball bat into my clavicle.

The sheer kinetic energy spun me around.

The second and third hit my ribs, tearing through the cheap cotton of my scrubs.

The air vanished from my lungs.

The fourth grazed my hip, leaving a hot, searing trail of fire.

The fifth found its home deep in my lower abdomen.

I hit the floor hard, my chin cracking against the edge of a mahogany side table.

Dust settled over us like dirty snow.

The ringing in my ears was absolute, a high-pitched mechanical whine drowning out the shouting men and returning fire.

I lay half draped over Brenda.

The terracotta tiles were shockingly cold against my cheek.

I looked at a single crushed orchid petal near my nose, my mind strangely calm.

Something wet and impossibly warm was soaking through my shirt, pooling against my stomach.

It smelled distinctly like raw iron and pennies.

“Megan, look at me.”

Brenda’s voice was a panicked hiss, her manicured hands hovering over my back, too afraid to touch.

I tried to speak, but a thick metallic bubble formed on my lips and burst.

Waking up was a gradual, agonizing process.

Awareness bled back into my brain like mud creeping up a riverbank.

First came the smell of bleach, heavily starched linen, and stale floral arrangements.

Then came the rhythmic electronic chirp of a heart monitor pulsing in time with the throbbing behind my eyeballs.

Every shallow breath felt like dragging sandpaper across my lungs.

I forced my eyelids open, the fluorescent lights overhead sending a spike of nausea straight to my stomach.

The blurry shapes coalesced into a sterile, high-end private hospital suite.

A man sat in the corner, exuding a predatory calmness that made the hair on my arms stand up.

The syndicate boss standing in the corner resembled pure danger tailored into an expensive suit.

He had harsh angles, a strong jaw shadowed by dark stubble, and eyes the color of wet flint.

“Five bullets hit you.”

His voice was a deep, rough scrape against the quiet room.

I stared at him, my throat desert dry and raw.

“They cut off my scrubs,” I whispered, the absurdity of my priorities hitting me hard.

Tyler stepped closer, dropping a heavy, cream-colored envelope onto the tray table.

“There is a bank draft in that envelope for $200,000.”

He spoke with a transactional tone, comforting territory for a man like him.

“I didn’t jump in front of her,” I confessed, the truth tasting bitter but necessary.

“She knocked over the tea, I flinched, and the bullets just got in the way.”

Tyler went entirely still, his cold mask slipping for a fraction of a second.

The next week dissolved into a haze of heavy narcotics.

My existence was measured in milligrams of oxycodone and the agonizing slow drag of the clock hands.

I didn’t touch the cream-colored envelope sitting on the tray table.

On the fifth night, the heavy oak door of my room clicked open.

The hinges gave a barely perceptible groan as quiet footsteps crossed the threshold.

I cracked one eye open, the street lamp casting long, distorted shadows across the linoleum floor.

A man in light blue scrubs stood near the foot of my bed.

Healthcare workers wore clogs or sturdy sneakers to support their arches during long shifts.

He wore soft-soled street shoes meant for moving in silence.

I couldn’t draw a breath to scream as the man in the blue scrubs reached into his pocket, his quiet street shoes moving closer to my bed.