Page 135 of Devil's Azalea

When I attempt to follow, a nurse stops me with a gentle but firm hand on my chest. “Wait out here.”

I stand there, paralyzed, my breathing ragged. I lift my handto shove it through my hair and freeze when I see how red and wet it is. Blood.Herblood.

My legs give out, and I collapse onto the cold hospital floor, burying my bloodstained fingers in my hair.

Please. God. The universe. Anything out there. I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her.I can’t fucking lose her.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “She’ll be fine,” Maximo’s voice, steady and reassuring. “She’s a strong woman.”

A commotion erupts behind us, and I lift my head up, glancing back to see Romero charging through the entrance, shouting for a doctor with a limp figure in his arms.

It’s Katie.

Some nurses and a doctor rush to meet him, and I turn back to stare at the surgery doors, my heart pounding.

“Rafael.” It’s Enzo. “I just got off the call with a reporter from the Times. You need to see this article.” He shoves his phone in my face, and I squint at the screen. The words are a blur, shifting around. Why can’t I read? Why are the words swimming?

Someone presses a handkerchief into my hand. “Wipe your eyes.” Michael.

I do as he says, and the text comes into focus. With an aching heart, I read the article about the heroic former agent who exposed FBI corruption and changed everything.

“They’re calling Emilia the whistleblower of our time,” Enzo says, a note of pride clear in his voice. “And the picture of you carrying her out of the hotel has gone viral. Everyone is calling you a hero.”

I know that’s a good development, but I couldn’t give a shit about the public perception of me right now.

“There are crowds gathering outside the hospital with get-well-soon signs for Emilia,” he continues. “They’ve made a shrine for her.”

Despite everything, my heart tightens with a different kindof emotion. She would love that. She would love knowing that people care, that her sacrifice meant something.

Footsteps approach, and I look up to see Dante, Maximo’s right-hand man, wearing a wide grin. “The Russians, Stacey, and her accomplices have been arrested.”

“What about the men who shot my wife?” I demand. I swear to God if they were also arrested, I’ll break them out of their cells just so I can kill them myself.

“We’ve got them,” Enzo says, his grin matching Dante’s as he looks up from his phone. “Just got a text from Lucien. They’re taking them to the warehouse.”

I surge to my feet and spin towards the hospital entrance, my hands already curling into fists.

“Where are you going?!” Maximo calls out.

“I have some vermin to exterminate,” I answer as Enzo falls into step next to me.

I could use the outlet of gutting out their entrails while the doctors work to save my wife.

47

EMILIA

The horrible smell of disinfectant hits me first, making me scrunch my nose in disgust. Seriously, who the hell is going overboard with the cleaning chemicals? Then the steady beeping sounds register, and the distant murmur of voices.

I blink my eyes open and immediately regret it. White ceiling. Blinding lights. Everything screams hospital, and suddenly the pieces start clicking back together in my memory. Rafael’s voice, desperate and raw, telling me he loved me. The way he begged me to stay with him—not just asked, but actuallybeggedwith this wild urgency I’d never heard from him before.

My toes curl just thinking about it. God, I need to sit up, but the second I try, this vicious pain tears through my side and I can’t stop the groan that escapes.

The hushed voices stop dead. Footsteps—light, quick ones—rush towards me. And then Rafael’s beloved face appears above me, blocking out those brutal lights, and I swear my heart does this weird little flip.

He looks like he’s been through hell and dragged himself back. His usually perfect hair is a disaster, sticking up at odd angles like he’s been running his fingers through it obsessively.His eyes—those silver eyes that usually look like polished steel—are bloodshot, the whites so red they make the silver almost ethereal.

This is not the Rafael I know. The man who’s always immaculate, always in control, always perfectly put together. His expensive suit is wrinkled beyond salvation, the top buttons of his shirt undone like he couldn’t be bothered with appearances.