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He doesn’t say anything when I lean against the wall next to him and exhale.
Smoke fills my lungs, easing some of the knots in my stomach. I take a few more puffs, and the voice in the back of my head recedes into the background.
When Ernesto finds me, I’m halfway through the cigarette, and although the headache is mostly gone, the bile in the back of my throat is still there. Ernesto hurries over, gives my companion a pointed look, and waits until he’s far enough away. Then he steps forward and gives me a confused look.
“I thought you quit.”
“Now’s a good time as any to take up any bad habits,” I say between puffs of smoke. “I’ll probably have to give it up again soon.”
Ernesto blows out a breath. “I can’t believe you’re going to be a dad.”
My stomach tightens. “Me either.”
As hard as I try to picture it, I can’t. Each time I think of a baby, I can picture Isabella, clear as day, rocking him to sleep or playing with him. But whenever I try to imagine the three of us as a family, my mind goes blank. While a part of me is excited about being a father, the other part of me is scared shitless.
What the fuck do I know about being a dad?
Granted, I had a great dad who instilled a lot of good qualities into me, but he’s been gone longer than I had him.
“Have you heard from Lorenzo or any of the others?”
I shake my head and stand up straighter. “No, why?”
Ernesto takes out his phone and scrolls through it. His breath is harsh and uneven as he holds the screen out to me and waits for me to take it. I take a few more puffs of my cigarette and then let it fall to the ground. After stomping it out with the heel of my shoe, I stare at Ernesto through the thin mist. With a frown, I snatch the phone out of his hand and peer at it.
A local news channel is running the story of my shooting, but rather than showing footage of the hospital where my bodyguard is doubling as me, there’s footage of the Blackthorne manor and a grainy image of my face in the distance. Cursing, I zoom in on the picture, the dull pounding in the back of my head returning at full force.
Fuck. How the hell did they find out so quickly? It’s only been a few hours since I found Tristan teering on the edge of consciousness.
Already, several local news channels are running the story, bringing an end to my earlier good mood. With a scowl, I hand Ernesto his phone back and pat my pockets for my own. When I fish it out of my pocket, I dial Lorenzo first, and he answers on the fifth ring, sounding breathless and impatient.
“What the fuck happened to making sure no one knew I wasn’t shot?”
Lorenzo exhales. “I don’t know what you want me to do, boss. You ran out of the safe house, and you knew the risks.”
“I don’t want excuses,” I snap, my voice rising in anger. “I want solutions, or I’m going to know whose head has to be on a platter.”
“But I—”
“Take care of it, or there will be one less Blackthorne in the ranks. Am I fucking clear?”
Without waiting for a response, I hang up and resist the urge to throw the phone across the parking lot. I want it to shatter and burn into a thousand pieces, but I know none of that is going to make me feel better or fix the immediate problem at hand. After sliding my phone back into my pocket, I stand up straighter and stride back in the direction of the hospital.
Once we step through the double doors, the smell of disinfectant hits me first, followed quickly by the sound of beeping monitors. There is a loud cacophony of voices on one side of the room, and a few of the staff seated behind the rectangular-shaped desk looking concerned. Others are on their feet and exchanging worried looks with each other.
When I walk past, a few of them stiffen. A security guard brushes past us and lingers.
Ernesto gives him a slight nod and inches closer to me. I make it to Tristan’s room and linger outside the door. I’m making a few more phone calls when I spot Dr. Masterson. He looks uncomfortable when he sees me and stops to run a hand through his hair. Then he motions to me, and I end the call. I follow him down the hallway, down a series of twists and turns. At the end of the hallway, he stops outside of a room with a glass window, with the blinds pulled halfway down.
Through the glass, I see a red-haired nurse tucking a blanket around Isabella’s frail and unconscious form. She adjusts something in the IV drip and then peers at the monitor. Slowly, she makes her way out of the room while Isabella stays exactly as she is. I glance over at the nurse on the way past, but she doesn’t pay any attention to me.
In the room, a low monitor beeps in the background, and Isabella looks small against the much larger hospital bed. Impossibly small and fragile.
My chest tightens as I cross over to her, climb onto the bed, and hold her to me. Isabella shifts and murmurs something in her sleep. “I’m here, dove, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Isabella whispers something else, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. I continue to hold her to me and ignore the pounding in the back of my skull.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop this from happening,” I continue in a low voice. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve called Tristan. I would’ve stopped that asshole from going after you.”
