At some point, I stand up from the uncomfortable chair and pace the room. Lochlan hands me a cup of coffee. It tastes like sludge, but I drink it because I need to focus on something other than my dad lying on an operating table. I answer questions from detectives who look at me like they know exactly who my father is and aren't particularly upset that someone tried to kill him.
I mean, who can blame them? So much of the crime that happens in this city has ties to his business ventures.
Lochlan stays the whole time. He keeps his distance, standing against the wall in a corner, giving us our privacy. I try not to stare but it’s impossible not to. With his face and body, he could be a cover model for one of the romance novels I keep stashed in my nightstand drawer. My one guilty pleasure.
And every time I sneak a glance at him, he's already looking at me.
I don't know what to make of him. I don't know what to make of any of this.
At four in the morning, a doctor in bloody scrubs pushes through the double doors.
“Family of Francesco DiMicheli?”
We all jump out of our chairs. My mother grips my hand so hard my fingertips go numb.
“He's out of surgery,” the doctor says. “We removed two of the three bullets. The third is too close to his spine to extract safely right now.”
“But he's alive?” Mom's voice is barely a whisper.
The doctor’s voice is grave. “He's alive. But he's in a medically induced coma, and the next forty-eight hours are critical. I won't lie to you. It's going to be a difficult recovery. If he recovers.”
If.
My stomach freefalls. A weeping sound slips through Mom’s lips and Luna hugs her close. I just stand there, frozen, that single word ringing in my ears.
If.
The doctor keeps talking, rattling off visiting hours, ICU protocols, things we should prepare for. I nod, but hear nothing.
My father, the most powerful man I've ever known, is lying in a hospital bed with a bullet lodged near his spine, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
Movement near the emergency room entrance catches my eye.
Two men walk inside. One is older with silver hair, dressed in an expensive suit. He moves with an air of arrogance and superiority, like rules don't apply to him. The other one is younger, tall, with a cold expression and a jaw like it was cut from stone.
I recognize the older one. He was at the gala. Near where Lochlan was standing at the bar before the attack.
My mother stiffens beside me.
"Maria." The silver-haired man holds out his hand to her and she takes it. Reluctantly. "I'm so sorry. Francesco is a fighter. He'll pull through."
"Eamon." My mother's voice is neutral, but the tension radiates off her. "Ronan. Thank you for coming. Your son Lochlansaved my daughter, Adriana. He brought her here and has been waiting with us ever since."
Eamon. Ronan.Molloy.
I look at Lochlan. His whole body has gone rigid. His hands have curled into fists at his sides, jaw ticcing.
Eamon gives Lochlan an acknowledging nod before turning back to us. “An attack on Francesco is an attack on both our families.” His eyes slide to me. “And you must be Adriana. I've heard so many wonderful things about you.”
“I wish I could say the same in return.”
His lips lift in a hint of a smile.
“This is my oldest son, Ronan. You’ve already met Lochlan.”
Ronan gives me a stiff nod. His eyes flick to Lochlan, contempt in his hard gaze.
My mother's hand finds my arm, and she squeezes. Almost like a warning. Of what, I have no freaking idea. But my pulse spikes anyway.
