“Violet,” I growl between clenched teeth. “You fight. You fight!”
The private ICU room hums with the low beep of the heart monitor, the soft hiss of oxygen, and the ghostly sensation of Violet’s limp body in my arms.
She’s lying in the bed, small and pale against the white sheets. Tubes and wires snake from her arms and under her nose. A ventilator does the breathing for her, and the rhythmic sound of the machine is the loudest thing in the world.
Her chest rises and falls with precision. The doctors call it “therapeutic hypothermia”. They lowered her core temperature to protect her brain.
I sit in the hard plastic chair beside her, my knuckles white where they grip the seat. I haven’t moved or changed out of my clothes. The nurse provided me with a hospital blanket an hour ago, but the cold from the water is still inside me.
Outside the door, I can hear the muted chaos of my team. Paige’s low, urgent questions. Rissa’s voice, higher and frayed with panic. Riley’s attempt to calm them, yet unable to come anywhere close.
The nurse keeps shushing them, a constant repeat of “Signorine, per favore, silenzio.”
They were told nothing except that it was a serious accident, no visitors allowed. I can feel their confusion pressing against the glass.
My mind keeps replaying flashes of the brutal memory, no matter how many times I try to push it away.
Her blue lips under mine. The awful, dead give of her ribs under my palms.
The wail of the sirens cutting through the afternoon air, and the paramedics prying me off her. Their hands taking over, loading her onto a gurney.
Ollie, standing on the dock like an avenging angel in a ruined cream pantsuit, her face streaked with tears and gunpowder.
The two men. The sidekick is attempting to get Michel out of there with his injured leg. He never got within twenty yards of the ambulance. Ollie had emptied her magazine into the car, the shots echoing across the water like a declaration of war. The last I saw, she was being put into a police car, her head held high as she gave statements in rapid-fire Italian.
I have no fear that Ollie will find a way out of this. And if not, she has my number.
Cassie is down the hall with a mild concussion and a sprained wrist from the struggle. She was conscious by the time the ambulance arrived, sobbing Violet’s name. They sedated her for shock.
But here, in this silent room, there is only the breath of the machine and waiting.
Violet’s mother is airborne. Ollie had made the call before the police took her phone. She was still over the Atlantic the last I’d heard, hours away.
I stare at Violet’s hand where it rests on the sheet, IV taped to the back of it. I remember the feel of it in mine, warm and alive. Now it’s cool and still.
I don’t sit here and pray that she’ll make it out. I make her promises instead.
You come back. You hear me? You fought your way out of one cage. You fight your way out of this one. Your mom is coming. Our people are in the hall. I am here. And when you open your eyes, I will burn their world to the ground.
The monitor beeps steadily as I continue to stare. Outside, a nurse finally succeeds in herding the team further down the hall, their worried murmurs fading. The room is left with a terrible, breathless quiet, and the slow mechanical proof that Violet’s heart is still beating.
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor buzz like angry insects all around me. I’d finally been persuaded to leave the room, shower, and change into the team sweat suit Paige had thrust into my hands.
I’m meeting Violet’s mother, taking her to see her baby girl lying in a hospital bed.
The thirty minutes I’ve been gone from Violet’s room have felt like a gamble. But I can’t imagine the thoughts and panic rushing through the woman who’s currently stepping into my view.
Linda Lockwood is a storm contained in a travel-wrinkled blouse. Her eyes, so like Violet’s, are wide with a terror she’s fighting to control. She sees me, a tall, grim stranger in athletic wear, and latches onto me like a lifeline.
“Where is she? Is she awake? The doctors wouldn’t tell me anything over thephone. Just ‘critical condition’.”
“She’s stable,” I tell her, squeezing her arms to ground her in place. I fall into step beside her, guiding her toward the ICU wing. “They had to cool her body to protect her brain. She’s not awake yet.” The words are thick on my tongue. I’d left her pale and still, a porcelain doll connected to machines.
“Cool her body? What does that mean? What happened? They said she was drowning, but how? Violet hates open water. She never goes near—” Her questions come in frantic bursts as she clutches my arm.
“It wasn’t an accident.” The flatness in my tone stops her, and she looks at me as the color drains from her face. “Men took her. From the cafe. They threw her into the canal… weighted.”
A choked sound escapes Linda, and her steps falter. I tighten my grip on her elbow, hating that I’m the one to give her all this news. Keeping her upright, I help move her forward.
