Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

Sabella

The void is dark and weightless like water. It's comfortable. There's no pain, neither physical nor emotional. No smell or taste or temperature either. No promises and vows to break. No hearts and trust to destroy. Just blissful nothingness.

Yet something pulls at me, an arm that thrusts deep into the water and clutches my hand. Someone calls me. The voice won't leave me in peace. It's my own mind, urging me to swim to the surface, reminding me that there's a world out there and plenty of reasons to live.

"Angelo," the voice says.

It comes from inside me.

He's my anchor, the hand I hold on to as a deep-seated knowledge that all isn't well threatens to pull me under again.

The sun winks above the surface, a blinking eye in the clear blue sky. It beckons me to the light. Leaving my cocoon in the water is hard. Swimming takes effort, but I fight. I kick with my feet and pull with my arms until the light becomes brighter.

I'm breathing under the water, but my mind is impatient for me to inhale oxygen. My lungs feel the work as I force my lips open and swallow a mouthful of air. A gasp rattles my chest. I choke. Cough. It's like being reborn and taking my first breath. Slowly, gravity returns. My body becomes heavy. My senses kick in, registering the pain first.

Disorientation sets in. Where am I? I peel my eyelids open and squint to dispel the sun rays that hurt my eyes.

"There you are," a female voice says.

My vision comes into focus. A woman with dark hair and a friendly smile bends over me, shining a flashlight in my eyes. She's wearing a white coat. The room is white. The blinds are white. Only the blanket is gray. No, blue. Light blue. Like the palest sky.

I'm in a hospital.

My heart jerks in shock, and then my memory rushes back, flooding my brain with everything I don't want to remember.

My voice comes out as a croak. "Angelo."

"Your husband is on his way," the woman says. "We contacted him when you showed the first signs of waking." She pats my arm. "It may take him a good hour to get here though. He was in Bastia when he took the call."

I nod and swallow.

"Shall we get rid of the cannulas?" Not waiting for my answer, she removes the prongs and the tube. "You're doing great."

I read her name tag. Dr. Casanova.

She adjusts the bed so that I'm in an inclined position. I flinch at the pain in my ribs.

"Here." She holds a cup with a straw to my mouth. "Take a small sip." When I've swallowed a little water, she puts the cup aside. "I'll give you some morphine for the pain."

"No," I say quickly. "I want to be lucid."

"I get that. You've been out for forty-eight hours. If you need a painkiller, just press this button." She shows me a red button that lies on the bedcovers.

"Thank you," I say, already exhausted from the few words I spoke.

"You'll get your strength back soon."

A ball forms in my stomach. I know instinctively. I saw the blood. But I have to be sure. I'll carry on hoping until I ask, and hoping is too cruel. "The baby?"

She shakes her head. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Russo. You miscarried."

I nod again, a lump lodging in my throat. The loss is devastating. A part of me already started grieving when I came to my senses on the floor in the kitchen, but I'm still not ready for the blow. I'm intimately familiar with the process of mourning. It's going to take time. If dealing with my dad's death taught me anything, it's not to lock the pain up inside. I can't harbor another storm that wreaks havoc in my chest.

"Like I told your husband," the doctor continues, "there's no reason why you can't try again. None of the damage is permanent." She pauses. "A police officer from the village came around. He asked to see you when you're conscious."

"I understand."

She smiles. "I'll have a meal sent, a little soup to start with."

"Thank you," I say, trying to return her smile, but the gesture doesn't come naturally.

I must've dosed off again, because when I open my eyes, a bowl of soup waits on the trolley, and a man I don't know stands next to the bed.

Alarm rushes through me. The beep on the monitor next to me speeds up with the crazy beat of my heart.

"It's all right, Mrs. Russo," he says. "I'm Officer Bartoli. I'm only here to ask you a few questions."

I blow out a silent sigh. For a terrifying moment, I thought my attackers had come back to finish the job they'd started, although this man isn't dressed in combat gear, and his head isn't shaved.

"May I see proof of identity?" I ask.

"Of course."

He takes a badge from his inside jacket pocket and shows it to me. He's barely put it away when the door crashes against the wall and a tall, formidable figure fills the doorframe.

The man taking up all the space in the room is dark and handsome in a storybook way, but the darkness reaches all the way to his soul. He's wearing jeans and a roll neck sweater under a leather jacket, the clothes hugging his powerful frame. His face is both beautiful and frightening, like that of a fallen angel. His features are harsh, the hard lines emphasizing his straight nose and strong cheekbones. A couple of days' worth of scruff darkens his square jaw. Black, feverish eyes pierce mine.

Angelo.

Officer Bartoli turns. "Mr. Russo."

Angelo ignores him, making his way over with long strides and taking my hand in a crushing grip. "Cara." He kisses my palm before brushing a hand over my brow. "How are you feeling, my angel? Can I get you anything?"

"I was just about to ask her a few questions," the officer says, adding with a slight narrowing of his eyes, "Purely routine."

"Then I'll call my lawyer," Angelo says.

"Does she need a lawyer?" Officer Bartoli asks.

I place my free hand on Angelo's arm. "It's all right."

Angelo clenches his jaw. "Can't it wait?"

"The doctor said it was fine." Officer Bartoli's smile is patronizing. "It won't take long." He looks pointedly at me. "If you prefer, Mrs. Russo, your husband can wait outside."

"That won't be necessary," I say.

"It's not uncustomary—" the officer starts, but I cut him short.

"I want him to stay."

Officer Bartoli clears his throat. "Very well." He takes his phone from his pocket and activates the screen. "Do you remember what happened to you?"

Angelo's fingers tighten around mine.

"I was attacked in my house."

He types something on his phone. "Can you tell me exactly what transpired?"

I swallow.

Angelo gives the detective a hard look. "Is this really necessary?"

"It's all right," I say again. "They broke down my door and surprised me. I tried to get away, but there were four of them."

Angelo squeezes my hand so hard I'm worried he'll break my bones.

"Four," the detective says as he notes it on his phone. "Were you alone in the house?"

"Yes." I glance at Angelo. "My husband was away on business."

The detective follows my gaze before bending his head back over his phone. "What happened then?"

"They assaulted me. I lost consciousness. When I came to, they were gone."

"They were gone," he repeats, presumably noting that too. "Did you call someone for help?"

"I don't have a phone."

He looks up.

Angelo loosens his grip and brushes his thumb in soothing circles over my palm.

"I prefer to live without electronic devices," I say. "I wanted a detox from computers and phones."

"I see. Carry on. You regained consciousness, and they were gone."

"I walked to the village and knocked on Mr. Martin's door for help. That's the last thing I remember."

"At what time did the assault happen?"

"It was just after eight."

"Can you give me a description of the men?"

"I didn't get a good look at them. Everything happened so fast. I panicked. I ran. Fell. And then they kicked me."

Angelo balls his hand in a fist at his side. I don't look at him. I can't.

"They must've knocked me out, because that's all I recall," I say.

"Do you have any idea what the motive for the attack could have been?" Officer Bartoli asks.

"Maybe a robbery." I lick my dry lips. "Maybe they heard my husband is wealthy."

The detective's smile is knowing. "Have you checked the house, Mr. Russo? Are any valuables missing?"

"As you can imagine, valuables haven't been my priority," Angelo says.

"Of course." Officer Bartoli puts his phone away. "Are you going to file charges?"

"No," I say, inviting a surprised look from the officer. "I just want to put this behind me."

"We want you to find them," Angelo says. "These men shouldn't be left to roam freely in our neighborhood."

"We'll do what we can." Officer Bartoli folds his hands behind his back. "Do you mind if we check out the house?"

"You're welcome to." Angelo gives him a stiff smile. "I had the doors repaired—naturally—but we'll do whatever we can to help with the investigation."

"That's good to know," Officer Bartoli says, his small smile suggesting he doesn't believe us. "Let me know if anything is missing when you've had time to go through the house."

"I'll do that." Angelo offers the officer a hand. "Thank you for your time to speak to my wife."

The officer glances at Angelo's proffered hand before shaking it. "You're welcome." To me, he says, "I wish you a speedy recovery, Mrs. Russo."

I force a smile. "Thank you."

With a nod at Angelo, he leaves.

And then we're alone.

I thought I was ready for this moment, but I'm not.

Angelo stares at me with questions burning in his eyes.

"Roch…" I swallow the lump in my throat. "Is he dead?"

Angelo's reply is as gentle as the hand he brushes over my hair. "He's alive."

I sit up straighter and immediately regret it when pain stabs into my ribs. "He is? I wanted to get him help, but I didn't make it."

"You more than made it. You survived." A deep line cuts between his eyebrows. "Against all odds."

"Is he here? I'd like to see him." I take a breath and fight for control as the memories threaten to throw me back into that dark moment. "To thank him."

"I had him flown to the hospital in Bastia where they could operate. I saw him just before I came over. The bastard is as tough as ever."

I smile. "I'm glad to hear that. I want to visit him."

"When you're stronger, you can thank him in person. I wanted him to come back to work for me, but he's happier as a teacher."

"It's strange, isn't it? He doesn't look like the type."

"Nope." His tone is quiet, probing. "He said he gave you a phone."

My head suddenly feels too heavy for my neck. I lean back against the pillows. "He did."

Instead of questioning me about my visits to the village as I expected, Angelo says, "What you told Officer Bartoli about your attackers, is that true?"

"I do remember their faces." Hatred tastes bitter on my tongue. My words are brittle. "I'll never be able to forget them."

He utters a curse and presses a kiss on the back of my hand. "Why did you lie?"

"Because Roch killed three of them. I'm not going to repay him by getting him into trouble."

"That's wise." He sits down, leaning an elbow next to me. "Is that the only reason?"

"No," I admit. "I remember their clothes and their shaved heads. They were part of a gang. The attack was premeditated, and I was the target. They came after me to hurt you, didn't they?"

"Yes," he says, gritting his teeth.

"Then there's your answer. I couldn't let Officer Bartoli ask questions about vendettas and why an organized crime group would want to weaken you. It could've given the police the ammunition they need to implicate you as part of a clandestine operation."

"You're protecting me?" he asks, watching me with an intense gaze.

A memory of the day he told me we'll never be on the same side flashes through my mind. "We're not on opposite sides."

"No." His smile is tender. "We're not. You were never going to sell me out me to Lavigne."

"Do you trust me all of a sudden?"

"I know what happened outside."

I frown. "How?"

"Drone," he says casually.

"Really, you're despicable."

"I can't argue that." He clasps my hand between both of his. "That's why I have to ask, why I need to be sure." He searches my face. "Is this what you want?"

"You mean do I want you?"

He nods, studying me like a predator as he gently caresses my hand.

"Because if I don't, you'll let me go?" I ask.

The line of his jaw turns hard. "I'll do anything for you, cara, anything at all, but I can't let you go."

"Because you need my surname, or because you want an heir?"

He winces. "Because I can't live without you. Because everything has always been about you. Everything I think, dream, breathe, and feel are you. If you leave me, I'll have nothing." He pauses. "If I let you go, I'll never have a chance to make everything up to you." He scrutinizes me, watching me as if he wants to see straight into my heart. "Do you want to leave?"

"I realized something when I thought I wasn't going to make it. I realized life is too short to throw a chance at happiness away. I realized that making myself miserable is not what my dad would've wanted for me. You told me I never chose you, and I thought you were right. But we were both wrong. I chose you the moment I met you. Things changed after you stole my dad's book. When you forced my hand and arm-wrestled me into marriage, you took away my choice. But when I found out that I was pregnant, I knew I wanted to choose you again." I swallow down the emotions that clog up my throat. "I choose you now, Angelo Russo, exactly for who you are. This time, I'm under no illusions. I know the man I married. I'm walking into this with my eyes wide open."

He's quiet, the stunning black of his eyes gleaming with turbulent emotions. "I was wrong. I shouldn't have left you alone in that house. I allowed my grief to ruin my chances at a peaceful life with you. I allowed my family to exploit my hatred, and despite what I just said, I can never make that up to you." He works his jaw. "All I want is for you to be happy. I wish it more than anything in the world. I'll do whatever it takes, cara." Lifting my hand to his lips, he kisses my fingertips. "Tell me how to fix this."

"You can start by not giving the men who attacked me what they want." My tone is hard. "Don't let them use me to get to you. They're nothing to me. I don't break this easily. If this is a war, then finish it. And make damn sure you win."

"Cara." He brushes my fingers over his lips. "I don't deserve you."

"That's true, but you're going to work on that."

He lowers his head and presses my hand against his forehead. "I don't know what I would've done."

"I'm here. So are you. We're alive. That's what matters."

He lifts his gaze to mine. "What happened, it's tearing me apart."

"Me too, but I'm not ready to talk about that."

"You don't have to," he says, his eyes bright with a sincere light. "When you do, I'll be here to listen."

"Let's not waste any more time."

Determination sets in his beautiful features. "I'm not going to waste a second I have with you."

"In that case, ask the doctor when you can take me home."

His expression darkens. A moment passes before he asks, "Where is home, cara?"

I don't hesitate. "Wherever you are."