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Sandro?

“Sandro?” I croaked, my voice scratchy, throat burning. His eyes were red, face pale, and his mouth was stretched into a thin line before he gave me the slightest kiss.

Then, gingerly, he scooped me up. He staggered forward.

That was when I saw Sloane and Nico.

Sloane reached out. “Sandro…”

“I got her.”

“I can carry her,” Nico insisted.

“I. Got. Her,” Sandro gritted.

My mind swirled in a daze, trying to rewind what happened as Sandro carried me into a house. I was in a pool. How did I get into a pool? Then events came crashing back. Swallowing water.Trying to keep my head above water. My shoes. I was thankful for the platforms. But how…Miller! That fucking son of a bitch! He and his men ambushed the ambulance. They shot the EMT. Grabbed Griselda and me.

Griselda!

“Where’s Griselda?” I whispered. My throat was so raw, it hurt to speak. No one answered. Sandro continued moving. “Sandro,” I pushed out. “Where’s Griselda?”

Still, I received no response. Growing alarm spiked inside me. Men seemed to converge around us in a protective formation, but I heard a man’s wailing somewhere.

That was when I saw Tommy.

I squirmed in Sandro’s arms. I spotted Tommy kneeling over a body. His hand was at the back of his head and his body was shuddering. “Oh my God. Is she dead?”

“Don’t think about that right now.” Sandro’s voice was strained. Was it my imagination, or did he stumble? Nico was hovering, and I could feel the rumble of a growl in my husband’s chest. My thoughts spiraled. Did they have to trade me for Griselda? I couldn’t remember much other than Miller saying that Sandro was going to pay.

My whole concept of time and space was whacked. We moved from room to room but finally made it to the outside.

“How is she?!”

Dad.

My heart pounded. Apprehension seized me. Would Dad take me from Sandro because he thought this was all his fault?

“She’s okay,” Sloane said.

“I wasn’t asking you.”

Sandro stopped walking and Dad’s face came into view. “Bianca…”

“I’m really fine, Dad.”

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” I responded.

But that was when I noticed he was addressing Sandro.

“I’m fine,” Sandro clipped.

“No, you’re not,” Sloane said.

“Shut up, Sloane,” Sandro hissed, but the strain in his voice grew more pronounced. Things started making sense: His uncharacteristic quietness despite the relief that I was safe. The lack of answers to my questions. The single-mindedness of getting me out of that house became his singular purpose.

I scrutinized my husband’s face. He was almost white beneath his tan. Sweat trickled from the side of his face despite the chilled air. It wasn’t from the water of the pool.