Page 64 of Wicked Sinner

CAESAR

The last thing I remember before the darkness takes me is Bridget's voice, fierce and desperate, telling me she loves me. Her hands pressed against my chest, warm and sticky with my blood. The feeling of her close to me, wanting to be near me, at last. Wanting me.

I wanted to say it back, but I couldn’t. Everything went black, and I lost my grip on her. On reality.

The darkness is strange—not peaceful like sleep, but heavy and suffocating. I'm aware of floating somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, catching fragments of voices and sensations that don't quite connect into coherent thoughts.

Bridget's voice, pleading with me to stay with her.

The smell of antiseptic and the beeping of machines.

Someone speaking in rapid Spanish and then English—a nurse, maybe, giving orders I can't fully parse together in my foggy state.

Pain that comes and goes in waves, sometimes sharp enough to drag me closer to wakefulness before fading back into nothingness.

And through it all, one constant: the memory of Bridget's voice as she told me she loved me. The way it broke on the words, like she needed to get them out. Like she couldn’t live without me hearing them.

Did that really happen? Or was it just my dying mind giving me what I wanted to hear?

The question follows me through the darkness, along with the fear that I imagined the whole thing.

That when I wake up—if I wake up—she'll go back to looking at me like I'm her captor instead of her husband.

That the walls she's been slowly lowering will snap back into place, higher and stronger than before.

I can't lose her. Not now. Not when I've finally found something worth fighting for.

The thought pulls me back toward consciousness, a lifeline in the dark. I have to wake up. I have to make sure she's safe, make sure she knows how I feel about her. Make sure our child grows up knowing both parents.

Light creeps in slowly, along with the steady beep of heart monitors and the antiseptic smell of a medical facility. My shoulder and chest feel like they’re on fire, but the pain is manageable—which tells me I've been unconscious for a while, long enough for the worst of it to pass.

"He's waking up."

The voice belongs to Dr. Ackley. I try to open my eyes, but they feel impossibly heavy.

"Boss?" Another voice, this one familiar and worried. My new head of security, Cruz.

I manage to crack my eyes open, squinting against the bright lights. The room comes into focus slowly—white walls, medical equipment, the concerned faces of a couple of my men watching from the door where they’re guarding me.

"Boss, thank Christ," Cruz breathes, relief evident in his voice. "You've been out for eighteen hours."

Eighteen hours. I try to sit up, but pain shoots through my shoulder and chest, forcing me back down. "Bridget," I croak, my voice coming out like sandpaper. "Where's—"

"She's safe," Cruz assures me quickly. "At the penthouse, under guard. Dr. Ackley examined her yesterday after you got out of surgery—she and the baby are both fine."

Relief floods through me, so intense it's almost overwhelming. She's safe. They're both safe.

"She wanted to be here," Cruz continues, "but the doctor put her on bed rest as a precaution. The stress from yesterday, the adrenaline—she was worried about the pregnancy."

Bed rest. Which means she's not here, not where I can see her and touch her and make sure she's really okay. The memory of her bloodstained hands pressing against my chest flashes through my mind, and I have to close my eyes against the wave of emotion that follows.

"The sniper?" I ask, forcing myself to focus on business for now.

"Dead. Tristan's men took him out while we were getting you to safety. Must’ve been the one Matvey threatened you with if you didn’t comply. He probably saw you come out and decided to take matters into his own hands.”

"Matvey's people are all accounted for?"

"All dead or scattered. The threat is over, boss. Completely."

I nod, trying to process this information through the haze of painkillers. Matvey Slakov is dead—his revenge plot ended before it could destroy everything I've built. The immediate danger to Bridget and our child is over.

But that doesn't answer the question that's been haunting me since I lost consciousness.

"Cruz," I say carefully, "in the van, after I was shot. Did Bridget… did she say anything?"

His expression softens slightly. "She stayed with you the whole ride, boss. Didn’t want to let anyone else near you. She was..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "She was pretty upset."

That's not an answer to my question, but it's something. She cared enough to be upset, at least. Whether she actually told me she loved me or I imagined it in my delirium is still unclear.

Dr. Ackley comes in a few minutes later, checking my vitals and examining the bandages on my shoulder.

"You're very lucky, Mr. Genovese. The bullet missed all the major arteries and organs.

Went clean through the muscle and out the back.

You'll be sore for a few weeks, but there shouldn't be any permanent damage. "

"When can I go home?"

"I'd prefer to keep you here for another day or two—"

"When can I go home?" I repeat, putting steel in my voice despite how weak I feel.

Dr. Ackley sighs. "This afternoon, if you promise to take it easy. No strenuous activity, no heavy lifting, and you need to keep the wound clean and dry."

"Done."

She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she’s dealt with enough mafia men to know better than to argue with me when I've made up my mind. After another hour of tests and bandage changes, I'm finally cleared to leave.

The ride back to the penthouse feels endless.

Every bump in the road sends fresh pain through my shoulder, and I find myself gripping the door handle tighter than necessary.

All I want is to see Bridget, to make sure she's really okay, to find out if what I remember from the van was real or just wishful thinking.

Cruz helps me to the elevator, though I wave him off before we reach the penthouse floor. I can walk on my own, and I don't want Bridget to see me as weak or helpless. She's already been through enough.

The penthouse is quiet when I enter, afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I expect to find Bridget in bed, following doctor's orders, but the bedroom is empty.

"Bridget?" I call out, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.

"In here!" Her voice comes from the walk-in closet, and I follow the sound.

I find her standing in front of the full-length mirror, wearing a simple green dress that brings out her eyes. She's zipping up the back, but she stops when she sees me in the reflection.

"Caesar." She turns around, and I see relief and something else—something that looks like love—flash across her face. "You're home."

"I'm home." I lean against the doorframe, partly because I'm still weak and partly because I need the support to keep standing when she looks at me like that. "What are you doing? The doctor said you should be on bed rest."

A small smile tugs at her lips. "I had a telehealth call this morning, and we went over my symptoms, of which there haven’t been any. Dr. Ackley cleared me—no more bed rest, no more restrictions. The baby and I are both perfectly healthy."

Relief floods me at hearing that—and seeing her like this, clearly in perfectly fine shape despite everything that’s happened. "And you were getting dressed because...?"

"Because I was coming to see you." She takes a step toward me. "I couldn't stand being here alone anymore, not knowing how you were, not being able to see for myself that you were okay."

There's something in her voice, something vulnerable and open that I haven't heard before. It gives me the courage to ask the question that's been eating at me.

"In the car," I say quietly, "after I was shot. Do you remember what you said to me?"

Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't look away. "I remember."

"Did you mean it?" I feel my heart thud against my ribs. I’m afraid of the answer, but I need to know.

For a moment, she doesn't answer. She just looks at me, and I can see her working up the courage to say whatever she needs to say.

"I meant every word," she finally whispers.

The feeling that floods through me is so intense it makes me dizzy. Or maybe that's the blood loss. Either way, I have to grip the doorframe tighter to keep from swaying.

"Caesar, are you okay? You look pale—"

"I'm fine," I assure her, but she's already moving toward me, her hands fluttering over my chest and arms like she's checking for new injuries.

"You shouldn't be standing. Come on, let's get you to bed."

She takes my uninjured arm and starts guiding me toward the bed, and I let her.

Not because I need the help, but because I like having her close, like feeling her concern for me.

And besides… I’m perfectly happy to let her take me to bed, even if I’m not sure how much is going to be happening once we’re there.

"Bridget," I manage as we reach the bed, "what you said in the car—"

"I should have told you sooner." She helps me sit on the edge of the mattress, then sits next to me, her hand resting on my knee. "When you told me how you felt at the warehouse, I should have said it then."

I can still feel my heart thundering in my chest. "Why didn't you?"

She's quiet for a long moment, her eyes focused on her hands.

"Because I was scared," she admits finally.

"After the way we started, after everything you put me through in the beginning, I was afraid to trust it.

Afraid to trust you, or myself, or what I was feeling.

I told myself that it was Tristan saying we needed to go, that I just wanted to wait for a better moment, but I was just thinking that I had time, that I could think about it a little longer. "