Accidentally Yours (Merffy Kizzmet) novel Chapter 139

Chapter 139

Lola

The world tilted, sloshed, came back in shards.

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Fluorescent lights, too bright. The antiseptic sting of alcohol. Rubber–gloved hands pressing, pulling, stitching.

Pain carved her open, white–hot and merciless. She tried to shift but her body screamed in protest, every rib grinding like broken glass. Something sharp burned down her side where the shrapnel had kissed her, a deep gouge that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

“Hold her down-” a voice barked.

“I’m trying-”

Her limbs jerked without her say–so, twitching against straps she hadn’t even noticed until now. Fuck. Strapped down like a bug on a

table.

Her throat rasped, a dry laugh trying to crawl up but choking halfway. “Don’t… don’t manhandle me on the first date.”

One of the nurses startled. Another muttered, “Christ, how is she joking?”

They didn’t get it. She’d always fought pain with teeth.

Her vision blurred, cleared again, blurred. Shapes bent overhead, faces she couldn’t pin down. She caught fragments: blood loss, pulmonary contusion, concussion.

Her brain tried to keep count of the damage but the list kept slipping through her fingers.

She thought of Enzo. The way he scowled when she mouthed off. The way he kissed her like he could fuse them together. She wanted that anchor now. Wanted his voice, his hands, the weight of him. Anything but this cold table and the sound of machines screaming.

Her lips cracked into a smile anyway, blood drying sticky across her cheek. “Bet I look hot right now.”

A nurse cursed. Another muttered, “How the hell is she alive after that blast?”

She clung to that. Alive.

Enzo

Twenty–four hours without Lola and Enzo was unraveling.

Not in silence, not in stillness–no, he didn’t have that luxury. He was out in it. In the smoke. In the blood. His fists bruised, his knuckles raw, his shirt stiff with someone else’s mess.

The Russians had been his first stop. Volkov’s warehouses, his shipments, his men. Enzo had stormed through them like a plague. Interrogations were fast and brutal–every word dragged out of mouths with the back of his hand, with the barrel of a gun pressed too deep into bone.

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Gino shadowed him through the streets, steady where Enzo was chaos, barking orders at the men trailing behind them. They hit a club on the east side, one of the Russians‘ fronts. Kicked the doors in. Dragged every man inside into the alley, lined them up against the wall.

“Where is she?” Enzo demanded, voice low enough to terrify.

One of them stammered something about shipments, about not knowing. Enzo pressed the muzzle of his gun under the man’s jaw until he cried, swore, begged–but nothing.

Nothing but wasted time.

He shoved the man aside and went down the line, eyes burning, fists swinging. By the end, three men were moaning on the ground, and one had been dragged off by Enzo’s crew for a longer conversation in a darker room.

Still no Lola.

Hours bled together, the city spinning under his boots–warehouse, alley, bar, safehouse. At every stop: no answers. Just more bodies left behind.

By the time he made it back to the hangar, he was unrecognizable even to himself. Sweat plastered his shirt to his chest, blood streaked down his arms, his lip split and swelling. His men went quiet when he walked in, eyes dropping, because they’d never seen him like this.

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11:00 Wed, Oct 8 M…

Accidentally Yours

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