She doesn’t wait for the argument she probably expects. “If you can come to the hospital, we’ll walk you through what we can.”
She doesn’t even finish the sentence before I hang up.
“Dante’s in the hospital,” I bark toward Frankie. “Reschedule my meetings.”
She bolts up from her chair. “Wait—what? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter without looking back.
And if he’s not—if he’s not okay—I have no idea how I’ll tell his father.
How I’ll walk into that man’s estate and explain that his son...
No. I don’t let the thought finish.
I just get in the elevator and slam the button for the lobby like I can outpace whatever’s waiting for me on the other side.
In twenty minutes, I pull into valet like I’m about to rob the place—tires screeching, door half open before the car even stops. I toss the keys at the stunned attendant with a barked, “Just hold the ticket,” and push through the hospital’s sliding glass doors.
The front desk is too calm. Too quiet. The woman behind it types like she’s got all day.
“Dante Marchesi,” I say, voice clipped, breath tight. “Where is he?”
She doesn’t even glance up. Just keeps typing. And typing. And typing.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Is she typing up the goddamn Declaration of Independence?
Finally, she sighs and pops her gum with a loudcrack.“Oh, this one.”
My stomach drops. “He’s alive?”
She leans back in her chair, chewing lazily. “And won’t shut up.”
Relief floods me so fast my knees nearly give. I brace a hand on the counter.
“What happened?”
“Ran a red light or something. Lost a battle with a dump truck.” She lifts a shoulder like she’s describing a minor fender bender. “Got pinned. They had to cut him out of the car.”
My heart drops again, lower this time. “Jesus.”
She goes back to typing. Another loudcrackof gum. “They’re still waiting on scans, but the only thing injured is his ego. Maybe his leg. He’s in 804.”
I’m moving immediately, heading straight for the elevators.
As I ride up to the eighth floor, I’m not sure which emotion is louder—rage that he got himself into this mess, or the shaky, low-grade relief that he’s still here to piss me off.
The doors open. I step out, scanning for the room.
I find it by the nurse walking out with a chuckle, shaking her head like she’s just been hit on and can’t decide if she’s amused or flattered.
Fucking flirt.
That pisses me off more.
I round the corner and step into the room.
Dante’s sitting up in the hospital bed, pulling off gauze wrapped around his head and fussing with his dark hair. A bruise already blooming across his temple, scratches on his neck and collarbone—airbag, probably.
