There.
She was there.
Somewhere inside that building.
The Bugatti had barely rolled into the emergency entrance before I shoved the door open and stepped out into the storm.
Rain drenched my coat instantly.
I didn’t care.
My shoes slapped hard against wet pavement as I strode toward the automatic doors with enough force that people moved instinctively out of my way before I even reached them.
Fear traveled faster than introductions.
And unfortunately my reputation often entered rooms before I did.
“Where is my wife?” I barked toward the reception desk.
The young receptionist behind it visibly flinched.
Her eyes widened as recognition crossed her face.
“Sir, I—”
“What ward?” I snapped again.
Ramiro stepped beside me smoothly before the poor woman completely dissolved from panic. “Ward nine,” he said quickly after glancing at his phone. “That’s the room they texted.”
I moved before the words had fully left his mouth.
My stride turned brutal and fast down the brightly lit corridor, long legs eating up the distance.
The sterile hospital smell clawed into my lungs.
My pulse pounded so violently against my ribs it almost hurt.
Loretta is here.
In pain.
And she asked for me.
After eight months of silence, she called for me.
We rounded the hallway corner sharply just as a doctor burst out of Ward Nine carrying a tray of bloodied surgical instruments.
The metallic scent hit me instantly.
Every instinct inside me detonated.
My walk turned into a sprint.
“What is happening to my wife?” I barked, fury and panic colliding beneath the words.
The sound echoed violently through the corridor.
The doctor looked up abruptly, exhaustion visible across his face beneath the surgical mask hanging loose around his neck.
