But rage won’t help Alina now. So I push it down, lock it away to deal with later.
“Pressure’s crashing,” the female paramedic snaps, already pushing me out of the way.
I let her push me as far as possible without letting go of Alina because that’s not fucking happening.
The monitor’s steady beep becomes erratic, the line jumping wildly across the screen. My chest constricts as I watch them work with renewed urgency, injecting something into her IV, adjusting equipment.
For a moment that lasts an eternity, the monitor continues its frantic dance. Then, gradually, the beeping steadies, the line stabilizing into a more regular pattern.
“She’s stabilizing,” the male paramedic confirms, his forehead shiny with sweat. “But we need to move faster.”
I move back to her side as the ambulance accelerates, throwing me against the wall. I brace myself with one hand while maintaining my grip on Alina with the other. I won’t let go again. Not now. Not ever.
As we race toward the hospital, I press my lips to her palm, her wrist, her fingertips.
My wife. My world.
Reaching the hospital, they quickly wheel Alina inside, disappearing behind a door that reads, ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’
The double doors slam shut with a finality that stops me cold. Those three words might as well be a fortress wall between me and Alina.
My hands clench uselessly at my sides, still sticky with her blood. For a man who’s spent his life controlling every situation, this helplessness is its own kind of hell. I stare at those doors until my vision blurs, willing them to open, to give me some sign that she’s still fighting, still breathing, still mine.
“Sir?” A nurse touches my arm, and I nearly break her wrist before catching myself. “You need to wait in the designated area. I’ll make sure the doctors update you as soon as possible.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. My throat has closed up tight, strangling words before they form. Instead, I let her lead me to a waiting room with chairs designed to be uncomfortable enough to keep you alert but generic enough to forget. The walls are the color of faded hope.
The moment she leaves, I begin to pace. Eight steps one way, pivot, eight steps back.
A small family huddled in the corner watches me warily. The mother pulls her child closer when I glance their way. I know I probably look like I want to throttle them. I don’t. They don’t matter.
Colin appears in the doorway, his bulk filling the frame. His eyes find mine across the room, and he approaches with the caution of a man who knows exactly what I’m capable of in this state.
“Boss,” he says quietly. “The car’s been taken care of. No charges will be filed against the driver.”
I nod once. The driver is irrelevant. This isn’t his fault—it’s mine. I pushed her to this. Made her so afraid of me that she’d rather run into traffic than face me.
“Any word?” Colin asks.
“Nothing yet.” My voice sounds like it’s been dragged over broken glass. “They just… took her.”
He positions himself by the entrance, becoming part of the architecture. Only visible enough to discourage interruptions, but unobtrusive enough not to draw attention. The perfect sentinel.
I drop into a chair, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them flat against my thighs, spreading my fingers wide, watching the dried blood crack in the creases of my knuckles.
Alina’s blood. The sight of it triggers a fresh wave of nausea.
Launching to my feet again, I resume pacing. The overhead lights buzz with maddening persistence. A clock on the wall ticks away seconds. Time has no meaning here. It expands and contracts like a living thing, measured only in the space between updates that don’t come.
I think about Alina’s smile on our first morning in the villa. How the Caribbean light filtered through the curtains, paintingher skin with gold. How she looked at me with trust I hadn’t earned but desperately wanted to deserve.
The memory shifts to her face at the dock; the fear as she pulled away from me. She thought I’d hurt her for killing Andrea. The realization cuts deeper than any blade. After everything, she still doesn’t know me at all.
“Mr. Russo?”
My head snaps up to find a doctor standing before me. Middle-aged, with lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. I didn’t hear him approach, a lapse that would have gotten me killed in any other circumstance.
“Your wife’s condition is serious,” he says, voice clinical. “She has a broken left arm that will require setting, but our primary concern is the head trauma. The impact caused what we call a subdural hematoma. It’s bleeding between the brain and its outer covering.”
