Page 98 of Revenge on the Mafia

“I’ll tell you. I promise.” He looked like he carried his heart in his eyes. “But get dressed, first.”

His tone did something to me. I think I knew what it was. But I buried it deep down in that chest with the rest of my dreadful memories.

“I’ll get our bags.” He hesitated, biting back words he wanted to say. Melancholy hummed between us. I shuffled away from him as if it were a disease that would infect me. “Hurry.”

Then he turned and walked out. But it felt like the weight of the world was resting on his shoulders, and somehow, I knew wherever we were going, it was nowhere nice.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

ANNA

“Ready?”

My gaze fell to his hands. He had a bag in one and passports in the other. My chest tightened another notch.

“Let’s go.”

I wanted to move, but my feet didn’t get the message. One of those passports had España written across it in bold. The pit of doom in my chest climbed.

“Anna.” He swallowed the space in three strides, took my hand in his, and tugged. “I don’t want to waste time.”

That hit me right in the center of my chest. I shook my head. I knew it was happening. Hit pause. Hit pause. Hit pause.“Let’s go, stella mia.” His voice was too soft.

I wasn’t ready yet. Eleven years was too short a time to recover from one death to face another. He tugged again. I grasped the lapels of his jacket. “Lie to me,” my voice cracked. “Tell me she’s okay.”

The bag thudded to the floor. His hands covered mine. His eyes pierced into mine. “She’s okay.” My body went numb. In that moment, I knew Niccolò Martello had never lied to me. Until then. I let him tug me. I followed him like he’d put me on a leash. She was okay. She was okay. But in the darkness of the hole in my chest, there were two words he’d left unsaid. For now.

I didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. I wasn’t even sure if I blinked. The only thing I did was stare into the emptiness in front of me. In between, we moved. Drove to an airport, flew in a private jet, and landed in Malaga. Got on a helicopter and flew to Marbella. The hot, dry air of late August hit like desert heat. We drove under clear skies, past translucent oceans and tourists paddling in bright swimwear and designer shades. His hand on mine tightened. I hadn’t said a word to him. He hadn’t either. Yet it felt like there was a line of static communication between us. It said, how could people be happy when I was dying inside?

My heart picked up pace the closer we got to the hospital. My chest ached. I rubbed it subconsciously but stopped when his gaze caressed the spot like a touch. I was on the edge of my seat when the car drove up the driveway. It didn’t stop. I didn’t wait for it. Shoving the door open, I flew out and ran. Shoes abandoned in the car, heart dropping with every step. White walls rushed past me. The sterile environment was an aching reminder of past times. I turned the corner and collided with a woman in scrubs. She gripped me in her arms as if she had been waiting for me. Her name tag read Dra. L. Duque.

“Is she—”

“She’s okay for now, Señora Martello.”

For now. My knees buckled. The room spun. Strong arms held me up. My confused gaze found him as he pulled me against his chest.

“Come, let me take you to her.” The doctor’s words seeped into my darkening world.

We walked to the end of the hallway. Waited for the lift and got on it when it arrived with a ping that cracked the silence. Halfway through, I noticed Nico’s hand had gone blue. With a gasp, I released my grip on him. Without a word he took it and placed it back on his.

“This way,” the doctor said, and I wondered how she did it. Dealing with death day in and day out when I couldn’t handle one and the second was going to take me to my grave. I was sure of it. I couldn’t survive this. Blue vinyl underneath my feet, stainless steel bars that hugged the walls. In front of me were two metal doors with portholes cut into them. She pushed through them. “She’s in the ICU.”

I nodded, then halted. I hadn’t even asked what had happened. “What happened?” My voice was raw. Rusted. It was about to break as it had eleven years ago.

“She had a stroke.” My body fought to shut down, and I swayed on my feet. He was warm. A pillar on which I leaned. “It was a minor one, but we need to monitor it.”

I asked, even though I knew better. “Will she recover?”

She glanced behind me at Nico for a brief second as if she was seeking his approval before her gaze dipped to me again. “It’s difficult to say. The next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

Next to the double doors, the visiting hours stood out in bold. We were well past them. I stared at the disinfectant hanging on the wall below it. My mind had shut down. What was I to do with it? He took my hand and squeezed liquid onto them and covered both of ours and wiped it off. When he put the mask on me, it felt like he was reaching into my soul and cradling my cracking heart. I couldn’t hold his caress and dropped mine to the cold vinyl floor. I had to be strong. I didn’t have the luxury of breaking down.

He hesitated at the double doors. I walked in. He stayed behind. I turned to him. “She’ll want to see you first.”

I reached for his hand. “I can’t.”

He stared at it. Like it hurt him to let me go in alone, but it hurt him worse to see my grief. He exhaled slowly. After a beat, he took my hand and walked in with me.