A Loaded Gun

Chapter 33

Brooke POV

I was currently sitting criss-crossed on a pristine white couch as the world exploded around me. I'm not sure how exactly it got to this point, but oh well.

I raised an eyebrow as what looked like an expensive vase hit the TV, shattering both instantly. Knowing my brothers, they'd have a replacement within 15 minutes.

"Excuse me?" I spoke up. "Helloooo? Girl who just got out of a hospital over here, wondering when the hell this is going to stop?"

The yells around me continued, so I gave up my halfhearted attempt to get their attention. They'd get it out of their system eventually.

I leaned against the squishy couch cushion, my head tipped toward the ceiling as chaos continued to reign in the Amoretti household. Seriously, they were making a huge deal over nothing.

I woke up to the sound of raised voices, annoyed that I was disturbed from my cloud. "You need to tell her! You promised!"

"I don't want her to hate us! She'll hate us for this!"

What would I hate? I wondered briefly, before shrugging and dragging myself out of bed. I washed my scratched up face, wincing as the cold water stung my cuts.

After shrugging on a loose, soft, cotton t-shirt and stretchy leggings, I shuffled down the stairs, foregoing slippers but regretting it on each cool wooden step.

Michael, Marcus, and Daniel stood in the living room, arguing incomprehensibly.

"HEY!" my voice rose in annoyance. "You woke me up, can I at least know why?"

They turned to me and sheepishly rubbed the back of their necks. "Hey Brooke," Michael chuckled nervously. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like a rock until you woke me up," I said, crossing my arms and giving them a snarky look.

"Sorry we were so loud, we were just–" Daniel was cut off by Marcus's panicked voice.

"Talking about the weather! We were...upset because it wasn't what we wanted it to be today."

I stared out the window at the beautiful sunny day, a light wind making tree branches bounce. It had to be 70 degrees tops.

"Yeah. Makes sense. You wanted it dark and cloudy and all things horrible. Seriously Marcus, you run the mafia. Aren't you supposed to be a better liar?"

Marcus gave into Daniel's glare, one that said 'you better' and slumped. "I just...why don't we sit down?"

After getting situated on the couch, Michael pressed up against my side, Marcus hesitantly spoke. "So we were wondering...how exactly did you know how to treat a bullet wound? You looked like you had experience."

I tensed. I had forgotten that 'discussion' we were supposed to have after their stupid mafia confession. "I...lived in a bad neighborhood, I was bound to come across someone who got shot eventually."

He huffed. "Come on, Brooke. Don't lie, again."

"Fiiiiine," I dragged out the word. "I...was shot once?" I crossed my fingers and prayed they didn't ask anything else.

Daniel's face was deceptively calm. "You...were what?"

I ducked my head. "Yeah, but it wasn't anything major. As you can see, I'm fine."

"YOU WERE MOTHERF*CKING SHOT! HOW THE HELL ARE YOU FINE??" Michael again surprised me with his outburst. He was turning into a mini Daniel.

I folded my arms. "First off, language. Second, it was years ago. Third, you should be glad I was shot because otherwise Lucas would still be bleeding out on the counter!"

Obviously they would have gotten him medical attention eventually, but I wasn't gonna say that.

"YOU WERE SHOT?" Great. Lucas in all his limping glory chose that exact moment to make his appearance.

"I would rather have bled to death from 50 different holes than have you get shot! How the hell could you think we would be GLAD?"

I groaned. "I was just trying to find a positive side. Nothing wrong with that, right?"

Marcus's face was unperturbed. The only sign of any distress was the slight whitening of his knuckles. "How exactly did it happen?" he asked coolly.

I hesitated, not quite ready to tell this story, but Marcus noticed and his face hardened. "Brooke..." it was a warning.

I quickly mumbled out a string of words that probably made no sense to them: "ItwasaguywhoBennyinvitedovertodostuffandIfoughtbacksoheshotme."

I still remembered the look on his face when I tried to kick him in the balls. I missed, of course, my 13-year-old self being food deprived and shaky with exhaustion and pain.

He just pulled out a revolver from a hip holster, held it against my leg, and pulled the trigger, his face never changing.

"Could you repeat that? Slowly?"

"A guy Benny invited over wanted to do...stuff...but I fought back so he shot me." I muttered, bracing for the inevitable outburst.

My revelation led to a crapload of actions, one of which caused a nice fist-sized hole to appear in the wall.

I had completely spaced out at that point, trying not to spiral into memories of that particular...gentleman.

Suddenly the noise stopped, and the sound of heavy breathing filled the air. I glared at each of them. "You done now?"

My voice seemed to snap them out of their rage-filled haze, and they rushed toward me, asking if I was alright.

"I'm fine!" I had to yell over their concerned chattering. "It was 3 years ago, I'm fine now. And y'all need some serious anger management classes.

"Seriously, how am I supposed to watch Brooklyn 99 when there's an antique vase sticking out of the screen?"

Marcus glanced around at the destruction, cursed quietly, and pulled out his phone, speaking rapidly in Italian. There'd be a replacement within the next ten minutes, I would bet my unicorn slippers on it.

Daniel, worrier that he is, insisted on checking the bullet wound. I huffed but rolled down my waistband and showed the raised scar on my upper thigh.

"See? It's all healed and done with. Y'all need to calm down." That was apparently the wrong thing to say, since Lucas's head snapped up, eyes filled with rage.

"Calm down? Calm DOWN? How in the HELL am I supposed to calm down? You were shot! You could've died!"

I was sick of it. Sick of the panicking, sick of the worry, sick of the pity.

"Yeah? YOU could have died! If I hadn't been shot and known how to dig out a bullet you would be bleeding out with an infection!

"You're worried about something that's over and done with, about a wound that's been healed for years. YOU were shot two effing days ago! Now get on that couch while I check it out, and I saw you limping; you're staying there until I say you can get up!"

He stared at me, shocked, before scrambling to the couch and uncovering his wound. I sighed at the barely formed scab.

"You need to stay here. I'll be right back. You move at all, and I'm castrating you." I sent him a threatening glare and stormed to find a first aid kit.

He remained frozen until I returned, holding his breath. I scoffed at his dramatics and dug in the box for supplies.

Shaking out two painkillers, I shoved them toward his mouth. "Swallow," I said briskly. He meekly obeyed.

I removed the old bloodied gauze and applied antibiotic ointment over the wound, covering it with fresh white bandages.

I sent him a final glare. "Stay there. If I have to be coddled and worried over so do you."

Just like two nights before, I left my brothers shell shocked as I stormed to wash my hands.