Chapter 22: Chapter 20

“Do not touch me,” I choke out and pull my hand from my father’s hold.

He’s been hovering over me for the entire ten-hour flight. If there were parachutes on board, I would have forced one on him and kicked him out of the damn plane.

“Vasya, baby . . . He’s going to pull through.” He tries to take my hand again but I slap it away.

“You sent Uncle Sergei to kill the man I love,” I snap, barely keeping the tears from spilling over. “In your sick, maniacal need to keep me from harm, you inflicted the worst possible pain on me. I hate you. God, I hate you so much.”

“Please, Vasya . . .”

“Roman,” my mom says from the seat next to me. “Go sit in the back.”

“But . . .”

“Now, kotik,” she growls and wraps her arm around me. “What did Rafael’s brother say?”

“He’s still in surgery. His second one. Surgeons had to go back in to stop the internal bleeding. That’s not even the worst of it.” Gulping for breath, I try to get the next words out. “He flatlined on arrival, and they had to resuscitate him.” I press the heels of my palms over my eyes.

It’s been hours since I’ve been able to draw a full breath. Quick, shallow intakes of air are all I can manage to get past the knot that’s formed in my throat. The survival rate for a gunshot wound to the chest is low, especially from a high-powered weapon and at close range. And knowing my uncle, he probably used one of his big-ass guns.

Mom squeezes my hand. “He’s going to be fine, Vasilisa. I promise you. He’s going to be fine.”

The plane tilts. My ears are ringing but not because we’re landing. There’s a scream that’s been building inside me, pushing on my lungs and mind, ready to burst free. I want to let it out, but I’m afraid if I do, I won’t be able to stop.

There is a slight bump when the wheels hit the ground. I’m out of my seat and running for the door even before we stop moving. It took hours to find a jet that could fly us to Sicily on short notice, and I’m not losing another minute to get to my man.

The flight attendant sprints before me, blocking my way to the door. Protests, likely, leave her mouth, but they sound like nothing more than mumbling to me.

“Move!” I snarl and try to get past her, but two strong arms wrap around me from behind.

“Vasilisa . . .” My father’s voice next to my ear. “Please.”

“Let me go.” I try to wriggle free. “Don’t ever fucking touch me! I can’t even stand the sight of you!”

He keeps speaking, words that are meant to soothe me, but nothing penetrates my brain. All my focus is on the aircraft door a few feet away. The minutes it takes for the plane to taxi over to the tarmac feel like years of my life. When the door finally opens, I rush through it and down the steps.

Uncle Sergei is standing by a parked car, pulled up to the edge of the runway. He’s still dressed in his regular tactical outfit, his usual attire when he’s hunting someone down for Bratva. I can’t bear to look at him, either.

“Take me to him,” I say as I pass by my uncle, heading toward the passenger-side door.

“Let’s wait for—”

“Take me to him!” I roar. “Now!”

Uncle Sergei throws a look over his shoulder, toward the plane where my mom and dad are just descending the stairs. I don’t really expect him to move from his spot since his loyalty is only to the pakhan, but he nods and gets behind the wheel.

The car surges forward. I clasp my hands in my lap, frantically twisting the plain silver ring around my finger.

* * *

“I apologize.” The nurse at the information desk shakes her head. “But as I’ve already told you, I can’t disclose patient information to anyone other than immediate family members.”

“Please,” I beg, squeezing the white counter before me. “Just tell me if he’s alive.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

I press my hands to my mouth. That scream in my throat is ready to explode, the pressure so great it’s pounding in my temples. My lungs must’ve shrunk because I can’t seem to get enough air.

I turn around, looking at the multitude of hallways and closed doors. Rafael is alive. I won’t accept any other possibility. He’s somewhere out there, and I’m going to find him, even if I have to fight my way past every damn member of the hospital’s security personnel.

My eyes fall on the figure of a man in jeans and a bright-yellow T-shirt, sitting hunched over in a chair halfway down the hall to the left. It’s Guido. I run toward him at breakneck speed. The bastard didn’t take any of my calls for the past hour, and I’ve called him at least fifty times.

“How is he?” I whisper. “The staff won’t tell me anything.”

Guido’s jaw hardens. “Still in surgery.”

A strangled whimper leaves my lips. “How bad?”

“It’s bad,” he rasps, gaze glued to the floor. “I knew, you know? The moment you told me your father sent Belov, I fucking knew.”

“Knew what?”

He looks up, his eyes red. “Rafael has been a mercenary for nearly two decades. How many times do you think my brother has been shot in all those years?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not once. But here he is, with a team of five surgeons trying to patch him up after a point-blank bullet to the chest.” He points a finger at me. “Rafael just sat there and let Belov shoot him. Because of you!”

Guido’s raging words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest. I stagger back, bumping into the hallway wall. “No.”

“Yes!” He leaps out of the chair and closes the distance between us. His face is a mask of fury and pain as he leans forward, drawing level with my eyes. “He is so in love with you that he’d rather die than kill someone you care about. I hope now you have your fucking proof of how much he loves you.”

My vision is completely obliterated with tears, and I don’t notice the papers Guido must have taken out of his pocket until he slams them against my chest. “You’ll need this if you want to see him. If he makes it, that is.”

I wipe my eyes, then look down at the document in my hand. The first sheet is an official-looking certificate with a stamp at the top. It’s dated as of three days ago. The text is in Italian, but I notice Rafael’s name. And just below it, mine. My eyes jump back to the header of the document. I may not speak or read Italian, but I recognize the word matrimonio, and I know what it means.

Marriage.

“What . . .” The word tumbles from my mouth. “How?”

“My brother might be a love-blinded idiot, but he’s still a scheming ass who always finds a way to get what he wants.” Guido turns to head down the hallway but then halts. “He left you everything. If he doesn’t pull through, you’ll get almost seventy million in cash and ten times that amount in investments. It’s all yours, Mrs. De Santi.”

“I don’t want his money!” I scream.

“Well, as I said,” he retorts as he walks away, “Rafael always gets what he wants. In the end.”

* * *

I stare at the two doctors before me. “What do you mean ‘he’s not waking up’?”

The older one, a short man in his late fifties, sighs and turns to Guido who stands next to me. I have no idea what the surgeon says in Italian, so I focus on his face, trying to gauge something from his expression. There’s nothing, besides a stoic look. His much younger coworker, however, is holding a folder to his chest and not saying a word, but gaping at me like a dumbstruck fool.

“Will you please tell me what’s going on?” I ask, praying to God the young guy’s English is better than the older doc’s, because I’m going out of my mind. Panic courses through my veins. I’m just about to lose it.

“Um, well, your husband is . . . Is he really your husband?”

“Yes!”

“Oh . . . I thought I misunderstood. It’s just . . .” His eyes scan me from the top of my head, over my short body-hugging dress, all the way to the tips of my heels. “Um . . . he’s experiencing delayed emergence, a failure to regain consciousness following general anesthesia. It’s been more than thirty minutes but he’s still unresponsive. For now, he’s breathing on his own. However, if he doesn’t wake up in the next half an hour, we may need to consider administering more potent drugs and, potentially—”

“He’ll wake up,” I interrupt him. “I’ll make sure my husband wakes up. Let me see him.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think you can help.”

I grab his sleeve, twisting the fabric in my hand while tears burst from my eyes. “He. Will. Wake. Up.”

The young doctor looks at his colleague, and they exchange a few sentences in Italian before glancing back at me.

“Five minutes,” he says and sets a brisk pace toward the recovery room.

My whole body trembles as I rush after the doctor down the hallway and across the waiting area where my parents and uncle are seated.

“Vasya.” Mom leaps out of her chair as I pass them by. “What’s—”

Wiping my eyes, I keep walking without slowing. Several sets of footfalls trail behind me, along with a distinctive click of Dad’s cane against the tiled floor. I can’t talk to them now. Not before I look upon Rafael and see with my own eyes that he’s okay. Guido can fill them in on what’s happening.

Another long hallway, and then the doctor stops in front of a sturdy-looking door.

“Ma’am, you need to understand that—”

I grab at the knob and step inside the room.

The constant beep of a heart monitor pierces the absolute silence. I put my hand over my mouth, but a pained whimper still manages to escape my lips. The metal door handle digs into my back as I stand rooted to the floor and just stare at Rafael’s unmoving form.

I take a tentative step. Then another. When I finally reach the bed, I’m a crying mess again. Cupping Rafael’s cheek with my hand, I bend so my mouth is just next to his ear.

“I’m going to burn everything,” I choke out. “That pretty house you left me. The hotel. Your cars. There will be nothing left of them.”

I press my lips to his temple.

“Those two yachts you love so much? I’ll scuttle both and watch them sink to the bottom of the sea.” I kiss his eyebrow. “Your private security company? You can forget about it, Rafael. I’m going to destroy it so completely that, in a month, no one will even remember it existed.”

His skin is so cold and clammy. I move my hand to his neck, setting it over the pulse point. The monitor beside the bed is beeping, but I need more tangible proof that he’s alive. Only when I feel the steady beat under my fingers, do I let myself relax a tiny bit.

“The money? I’m going to give it all away. I’ll find some stupid charity, A Better Life for Goats or something equally idiotic, and I’ll transfer all your millions to them. They can use all that wealth to create a fucking Goatland. A paradise where they can groom the goats, bathe them in donkey milk, and give the animals neck massages all day long.”

Why isn’t he waking up? I continue peppering his face with kisses, feeling the ridges and valleys of the multitude of scars under my lips. Most of the time, I forget they’re even there. I don’t see the stretch of badly stitched flesh that healed askew and twists his cheek. Or the one pulling his upper lip, making it misshapen. Or those on his chin that fades into the short stubble across his jaw. I just see him.

Rafael.

Knowing that, because of these scars, he believed he needed to buy my love with jewelry and other presents makes me incredibly angry. And completely devastates me. He got these scars by saving me. And he never intended to reveal that truth.

His face is an expressionless mask, but his lips are slightly parted. I pull his lower one between my teeth and nip.

“I swear, Rafael. If you don’t come back to me, I’ll make it my life’s mission to destroy your whole empire,” I whisper into his mouth.

He doesn’t stir. Not even a little. There are no sounds other than my sniffing and the rhythmic beeps of the heart rate machine. I press my cheek to his and bury my nose into his neck.

“Please,” I choke out, inhaling his scent. “I love you, so much.”

Even with all the hospital scents all around, he still smells the same. Like cypress and orange. Briny air and the sea. Leashed danger, but my undeniable safety. Like home.

I can’t lose him.

A light touch lands on the back of my head, and then a raspy breath just next to my ear. “You forgot . . . the jet.”

A relieved cry makes it past my lips. I squeeze my eyes shut and nuzzle my face deeper into his neck. My throat feels completely raw, and, even with my lids closed, tears still run down my cheeks.

“I haven’t.” I can barely form the words. “I’ll use it to send the goats on an annual vacation somewhere in the Caribbean.”

His fingers tunnel through my hair, petting me soothingly. “You came back.”

“Of course I came back.”

“You weren’t on the plane. The pilot called me. Said you didn’t come.”

Slowly, I lift my head and take him in. His skin is still ghastly pale, and there are dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I was preoccupied with trying to find a way to stop the assassin my dad sent to kill you, and I missed it.” I stroke his cheek. “I’m afraid your father-in-law isn’t your biggest fan.”

“So, Guido told you?”

“That you got me wasted and then got us married, leaving me none the wiser?” I press my lips to his. “Yeah, he told me.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“I can’t be mad at you when you’re in a hospital bed with tubes and shit sticking out of your body.”

“Those will come out. Eventually.” His chest rises with a deep breath. “Maybe you’ll contemplate slicing my throat when they do.” He takes my hand and moves it to his crotch. “See? Just thinking about it makes me hard.”

“Jesus, Rafael.” I snort through the tears.

“Please don’t cry, vespetta.”

“You almost died because of me. Again.” I brush my palm down his forearm, right over the daggers and snake tattoo. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

Anger flashes across Rafael’s face. He grabs my wrist, glaring at me. “Is that why you came back?” His voice is low, the tone infused with menace. “Because if it is, you can leave right now.”

I lean down until the tip of my nose touches his. “No. I came back because I’m in love with you.”

“Why? How could you be in love with a manipulative son of a bitch like me?”

“You are a manipulative jackass. And I love you despite that quality. Or, maybe, because of it. Because you care. Even when you say you don’t. You care deeply about the people in your life. Your men. Your brother. Me. I adore the fierce protectiveness that practically radiates from you, even when you try to mask it as something else. You’re willing to wade through a sea of dead bodies to safeguard the people you care about.”

I reach out and sweep back a few strands that have fallen over his face. Rafael watches me without blinking, his eyes sharp and assessing.

“The sheer force of your will and unrelenting determination that made you who you are leaves me in awe,” I continue. “And your stubbornness . . . It’s an entity of its own. I don’t think I’ve ever met a man as bullheaded as you. It’s rather sexy, you know?”

Tilting my head, I brush my nose against his. “I’m in love with you because no one else makes me feel the way you do. Cherished. Loved. Special. And it has nothing to do with the lavish trinkets you bestowed on me. Rather, it’s the sticky note drawings you left me. The stolen figs. The scratches from the poisonous shrub, all because I asked you to save that stupid cat.”

“You were extremely persistent,” he says in a raw and raspy voice.

“Yeah, that’s the only reason you did it.” I smile. “You make me feel worthy. And competent. Only when I’m with you, Rafael, I do not need to prove myself. My whole life, I’ve been hearing how beautiful I am, as if I’m some expensive piece of furniture. Pleasing to the eye, but easily forgotten when the viewers move on to the next room. Only once have you called me beautiful, and yet, you make me feel like I am, every single day. Not on the outside, but within.”

Rafael takes my chin between his fingers. The corner of his lips tilts into a barely-there smirk. “Are you fishing for compliments now, Vasilisa?”

“Maybe?” I sniff.

“You are so beautiful, that every time I’m with you, I have the urge to pinch myself to prove you’re real.” He pulls my face closer to his. “And you’re pretty on the outside, too.”

Something between a laugh and a whimper escapes me. Setting my palms on his cheeks, I slam my mouth to his. “I will never forgive you for letting yourself get shot. And I’ll never forgive my father.”

“Don’t be so hard on him. I would have done the same in Roman’s place.” He bites my lip. “Does he know we’re married?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sure he’ll be beyond thrilled.”

“He’ll grumble a bit, but—”

“WHAT?!” A loud male yell explodes outside the room. “That сволочь made my little girl MARRY HIM?”

The door flies open with such force that it slams into the adjacent wall, and my father steps inside. Irate doesn’t even come close to describing the look on his face. Unbridled rage. Savage indignation. His breathing is deep and slow. A sound akin to a bull’s snort leaves his chest with each exhale. The picture is made more perfect by the way his nostrils flare with each gasp.

“You!” he roars. “You scheming”—inhale—“lying”—inhale—“stealing . . . motherfucker.”

“Roman!” My mother’s squeal erupts somewhere behind him, and, a second later, she squeezes between my father’s body and the doorframe. Then, she presses her palms to his chest. “Leave them alone!”

“I’m going to kill him!” Dad yells while Mom tries to push him out of the room. “I’m going to skin him alive and hang his hide over my office window as a curtain!”

“Don’t mind him,” my mom chirps, grinning at us over her shoulder. “He’s just really excited about the news and can’t find words to express his happiness. Aren’t you, kotik?”

“I won’t be using a knife, oh no,” the pakhan keeps roaring while Mom maneuvers him backward. “I’ll use a fucking potato peeler. You’re going to make amazing burlap drapes, De Santi! And every time your remnants rustle in the breeze, I’ll remember your screams of agony!”

“We’ll come back later,” Mom whispers with a slightly comical, irritated look and slams the door shut in their wake.

I look at Rafael.

He has a very smug grin on his face. “Well . . . I don’t think we’ll be heading out fishing together anytime soon.”

I laugh and kiss him.