“Ambulance,” he managed to croak out, and I smirked at him.
“My oh my. Look how the tables have turned. You want me to save your miserable excuse of a life after you’ve already destroyed mine once.”
“Cillian,” he cried out.
“Would be better off without you. This entire world would be. After what you did to my mother and my twin, watching you squirm while begging me for mercy is likely more than your fucking goons ever allowed them. So what that Cillian and I were dating. What did I, or my family, ever do that justified death? Was loving your grandson and wanting to make him happy that bad of an offense that it was punishable by death?” When he said nothing, I nudged him with my foot. “Fucking answer me!”
“Fuck you,” he said to me, then choked a few times. I could tell he was having trouble breathing as his face and extremities were starting to turn blue. I’d never seen anyone actually die in front of me, and even a piece of shit like Ronan Brannington deserved a bit more dignity.
Monica had called back once or twice while I held him at gunpoint, and realizing I was better than the woman I was right now, I decided to call for some help. When the latest round of ringing ended, I snatched my cell phone off the table, then dialed 1-1-2.
“Emergency Services, how can I help you?” a woman said.
“There’s a man here, and I believe he’s having a heart attack.”
“Okay, what is your address?” she asked.
I hadn’t quite learned the address of this place, but I did see a piece of mail, so I quickly ran over to the counter and picked it up. I rattled off the address to her.
“And do you know the man’s name?”
“It’s Ronan Brannington.”
“Is he conscious?” she then asked.
I returned to the man, who was now more of a greenish color. One eye was partially open and the other was closed. He appeared to be still, so I assumed at this point that he was not. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Can you describe his condition?”
I detailed his current coloring as well as the symptoms he’d displayed before losing his balance. His chest was still moving up and down, so I knew he was breathing. “He is breathing, but having great difficulty in doing so.” I knelt down beside him, then placed my hand over his heart. “His chest is very tight.”
“Okay. I’m sending an ambulance there right away. Please stay on the line until they arrive.”
“I will,” I promised, and as I tried to remember any of the things the clinic had taught me to do during this type of emergency, I couldn’t remember a single one of them. All I could think about was Cillian. As the 1-1-2 dispatcher checked in every few seconds to make sure I was still here, I pulled up Cillian’s number and began to quickly compose a text message.
Your grandfather is here at the penthouse. You need to come quickly.
Soon after, a response came in.
CILLIAN:
Are you okay? Try to keep him talking until I get there and can deal with him.
I believe he’s had a heart attack.
CILLIAN:
What?
A call from him came in, but I didn’t dare drop the 1-1-2 call to answer it. Instead, I sent another response.
Waiting on the ambulance. Got Emergency Services on the line.
CILLIAN:
I’m about twenty minutes away. Be there soon.
“Are you still there, dear?” I heard.
