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If there was one thing the federal agent hated more than her family, it was organized crime as an entity.
During our first meeting, she tried to flip the tables. Amelia wanted an informant.
My honor wasn’t up for negotiation. But that didn’t stop her from trying.
Two hospital employees dressed in matching scrubs wandered in. They each glanced in our direction before averting their gazes to the floor. I tracked them down the hallway until they disappeared around a corner.
“Is there anything else?” I asked, pivoting back to Amelia as I struggled to keep my thoughts in line.
She shook her head. “No. Not yet. I’m still waiting for reports to come in—but in the meantime, I’ll err on the side of caution and post an agent outside Willa’s door.”
“Unnecessary.”
She frowned. “You don’t know who did this, Lucifer.”
“I won’t be leaving my wife.”
“She may still be in danger.”
I dipped my head, ensuring that Amelia met my eyes. “I will kill the next fucker who tries to hurt her.”
She grabbed my elbow. “Hey—”
My gaze dropped where she held my arm.
She released it quickly, but to her credit, she didn’t back down. “Do I need to remind you that I’m a federal agent?”
A smooth hiss filled the waiting room. I swung my head in the direction of the ICU door.
Dr. Garcia-Lopez stood in the doorway. My heart hammered behind my ribcage as I studied her, searching for silent answers.
Her expression was unreadable. “Mr. Flynn. A moment in private, please.”
Willa
Warm fingers brushed my forehead. My lungs burned as I inhaled.
I ached everywhere.
That is how I knew I was alive.
But I was tired . . . so . . . very . . . tired.
Lucifer’s deep timbre vibrated against the shell of my ear. “Come back to me, sweetheart. I need you.”
Come back? What was he talking about?
Something inside me wanted to obey. It wanted to wake up and prove to Lucifer that I was right there. But either it couldn’t or wouldn’t.
I didn’t understand why.
Darkness returned.
The next time I was aware of my surroundings, my nose and mouth were covered. The lazy beep of a machine reverberated. Something pinched the tender skin on the inside of my elbow. I wanted to ask whoever had poked me if they knew I was an addict in recovery, but the words didn’t form.
Who put the bag of cement on my chest?
The cycle of fleeting consciousness followed by incalculable, dark nothingness continued. I began to wonder if I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t alive after all.
