Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

Angelo

Roch waits in the parking lot of the hotel when I get back.

He straightens from leaning on the hood of his inconspicuous city car as I park and get out.

"I left the boat on the island." He grunts. "It may come in useful."

"Pack your stuff," I say in passing him. "Make sure you're on the next flight home."

"Mr. Russo." He runs to keep up. "I screwed up today. I'd like another chance."

"You heard me. I don't want to see your face again unless it's on Corsican soil."

I leave him standing there, too livid to look into his eyes. If Roch was any other man, I'd chop his hands off and throw him into the sea. The only reason he's alive is that he's a distant cousin of my mother, and she loved him.

I stalk to my room, order room service, and have a shower. The dinner arrives while I'm dressing. I opt for a casual suit and a fitted shirt. Wolfing down the food, I hardly taste the steak and grilled vegetables. After eating, I email a local security company with detailed instructions. I built a good relationship with the owner after researching them well. Even as I instructed Roch to watch out for Sabella, I already had a backup plan. A few, actually. I never do anything without a plan B, C, and D.

Once that's in place, I do a quick check to see what's circulating on the news about Edwards's death. What I find is shocking, even to me. Edwards kept a mistress for years. He had a daughter with her who's Sabella's age. Daisy. He set his mistress and his illegitimate daughter up in a luxury mansion in Hout Bay and divided his time between the women. The mistress, an attractive blonde with style and class, has an arm around the waist of her daughter on the newspaper photograph that's published on every internet news site.

Fuck me.

Edwards hid his infidelity well. My father warned me that Edwards was a snake, but Sabella's father was much slyer than I took him for. I never saw the move he made to kill my father and me coming. If I had, my mother and sister would still be alive. For that, I'll never forgive myself.

Sabella didn't say a word about her father's affair. I can only imagine how the news turned her already messed-up world further upside down. For that mess, we're both responsible, she unknowingly and me very much consciously. For that chaos, I'm prepared. I have my own doctor on standby in Corsica. I have all my weapons lined up—tranquilizers, groveling, money, sex, and discipline. Even a lock and key if that's what it will take.

But this? Edwards's double life may be the straw that breaks the camel's back. No wonder she swam as if she was heading for Robben Island today. What she did concerns me. She almost fucking drowned herself. It worries me that I don't have a plan for that.

Making a spur-of-the-moment decision, I head to the hospital. It's way past closing time when I barge into the office of the attending doctor who treated Sabella. His secretary has long since knocked off for the day. He's there though. He always works late. I had time to observe him when I sneaked into Sabella's room at night.

"Mr. Russo." He jumps to his feet. "My office is closed."

"I know." I cross the floor and take a seat at his desk. Pointing at his chair, I say, "Sit."

He does so reluctantly. "If this is about the bill, the administration desk?—"

"I already settled the bills."

He pushes his glasses up his nose. "In that case, what's the emergency?"

"I need to talk to you about Sabella."

"Miss Edwards?" He folds his hands on the desk. "Discussing a patient is highly irregular."

"I already told you, I'm her fiancé, and this concerns her welfare."

"It's preferable that she's present."

I smile. "Not going to happen. Do I need to remind you that I also made a significant donation to extend your ICU wing? How many beds will that add to your hospital?"

He clears his throat. "What would you like to discuss?"

"You read the reports from the psychiatrist."

"The initial one after she was admitted and examined, yes. With regard to her treatment, I'm not privy to that information."

I raise a brow. "Her treatment?"

He frowns. "Didn't she tell you? Naturally, after what happened, I recommended psychiatric treatment. Left untreated, the trauma she suffered can only cause damage that may manifest in her behavior later."

The bit about the treatment is news.

Concern creeps into his expression. "I hope she's heeding my advice and seeing someone to help her deal with the trauma."

"You know her diagnosis. Do you think she's capable of suicide?"

He doesn't as much as blink. "I'm not at liberty to discuss?—"

"Her wellbeing is at stake."

He searches my face. "Did something happen?"

"She went far into the sea today, so far that she wouldn't have made it back if I didn't have a bodyguard watching out for her."

"I see," he says, his frown deepening. "That's a matter you should discuss with her psychiatrist."

"It's your opinion that interests me."

"I'm not a qualified psychiatrist or?—"

"I don't care. You treated her. You must have an opinion. Is she capable of suicide?"

He blows out a sigh. "I can't say yes or no. All I can say is that she suffered such severe emotional trauma her brain short-circuited. It's rare, but it happens in very violent cases."

"And?"

He fixes me with a look. "And there's a history of suicide in the family."

That false belief, I ignore. "Based on only the trauma, it's possible then."

His smile is patronizing. "Anything is possible. Whether it's probable is a different question."

"How high is the probability in your opinion?"

"That, I can't say." He steeples his fingers as he scrutinizes me. "If you think she's a danger to herself, admitting her to a psychiatric hospital is an option."

"I'm not going to lock her up in an asylum." I dig my nails into the padded armrests. "All I'm asking for is a risk assessment."

"Look, as I said, I'm not a psychiatrist, but what I can tell you is that Sabella is vulnerable on all levels right now—emotionally, physically, and mentally."

"What will help? Medication?"

"Perhaps. I saw the news about her late father's so-called second family. She's just been through death and learning some shocking news about someone who was very close and dear to her. She can't demand explanations from the deceased. She'll be left with questions and doubts. What she needs now is a lot of patience and stability."

"What kind of stability?"

"No drastic changes."

"Such as?"

"Anything known to have a major impact on stress levels."

I clench my jaw. "In other words, taking her back to Corsica after the funeral wouldn't be conducive to her state of mind."

"Definitely not. I advise against any major changes in the near future, and moving countries counts high on the list of major changes. First of all, she'll have no friends or family, no social safety net in a new country. That's not ideal for her mental state of mind. What she needs right now is her circle of support. She'd have to learn a new language and adapt to a new lifestyle. All of this takes enormous emotional investment—making new friends, learning to commute, to communicate, to get a new job, to earn a rightful place in society, to find a sense of belonging, to combat the outsider syndrome, to?—"

"Fine," I say with something close to a growl. "I get it."

He raises his hands. "You asked. That's my personal opinion as a medical professional and not as a psychologist."

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out. It's Uncle Nico.

"Thank you," I say, getting to my feet.

"I hope that helps with your decision."

Not really. I know what a good man would do. To be separated from her again doesn't sit right with me. If the last two years of waiting were hell, the past five months of sleeping alone after I finally had her in a hotel bed were an inferno. I want her close to me, day and night. I want to get these goddamn obstacles out of the way so that I can put that ring I promised her on her finger and tie her to me with a vow and my name.

Don't you hate me, even a little?

She's mine. Yet a part of me will always hate her for the blood that flows in her veins. Logically, I know she's innocent, a pawn caught in a game. Rationally, I understand it's not her fault that my mother and sister are dead. I hold her accountable for nothing, but I blame her for everything. She didn't give the order. Edwards did. However, he did it for her. Everything that happened is for her. Because of her.

Maybe my motives aren't as clear-cut as I pretend them to be. Maybe the part of me that hates her wants to punish her as much as possess her.

My phone vibrates again.

I greet the doctor and take my leave.

Outside, I return Uncle Nico's call.

"Angelo," he says in a strained voice. "I have bad news. Your father had a heart attack."

Fuck. I make my way to the car with big strides. "How serious is it?"

"It doesn't look good. You know his health issues, how he fell back onto his bad habits after your mother?—"

"Tell him to hold on." I get into the car. "I'm on my way."

Dumping the phone on the passenger seat, I start the engine. My heart pounds in my chest as I race to the hotel.

As it turns out, circumstances once again took the question of what to do with Sabella out of my hands.