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“Sandro,” I whispered.

He swung me into an SUV, relinquishing his hold on me. And that was when I saw it. The track of blood that followed him.

“You’re hurt!” I shrieked, unmindful of the burning in my throat. That was the reason he wasn’t all over me. He had channeled all his remaining energy into getting me safe.

“Yes, and he’s a stubborn fucker,” Sloane said. “Now, will you let me look at you?”

“Not now, Sloane. I need to get Bianca to the hospital.”

“You know what, you’ll be the one they’ll be admitting if I don’t stop the bleeding,” she retorted.

I was so thankful for Sloane doing the talking because all I could mutter was, “Do it, Sloane.”

I glared at Sandro to make my point.

He returned my glare for a beat, still breathing heavily from his exertions in his weakened condition. “You’re going to the hospital.”

Because I was tired of speaking, I clutched my throat to make my point and then twirled my finger for him to turn around and face Sloane to make a further point.

Sandro looked like he wanted to argue but did as he was told.

Stubborn, overprotective man.

The door on my other side opened, then Dad got in. “Are you really okay?”

I smiled at him, and clasped his hand and gave it a squeeze, then croaked, “Help him.”

Dad’s mouth tightened. I knew he wanted to grab me and run, but he also knew I wouldn’t forgive him if he did.

Sandro and I were in this together.

In sickness and in health.

And despite how we said our vows, we were upholding them now when they mattered.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

Twelve hourslater

Harlem house basement

Sandro

My wife was safe. She was safe in the arms of her family. As for mine? It was in shambles, shredded, and burned to the ground.

Raffa, Gian, and Griselda were dead. She died of internal bleeding from beatings sustained from Miller.

The Scavos were in mourning. Tommy was inconsolable, but he had Divina. He had Arnie and Al.

The man in front of me instigated all this chaos. He was sitting in a chair, with his hands bound behind it.

Crowe Miller, aka Andrey Tanush, but his real name meant nothing to me. I wanted to know why he fixated on me. He ended the life of a military veteran before he had the chance to claw out of PTSD. Then he assumed his identity.

Miller followed my movements with dead eyes. Nico had done a number on him; his features were barely recognizable. He was also bleeding from a gut shot that was looking infected.

I had Sloane give him a blood transfusion to keep him alive. No morphine. I wanted him to suffer until I decided to end his pathetic existence. Gave him enough Adderall so he would stay coherent enough to give me answers.