Page 52 of Don’t Say Mafia

“Yes, I know,” I said quietly. “I know.”

He broke then, crying without restraint, his shoulders trembling beneath the hospital gown despite the wires tethering him to the machines. “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I can’t lose you. I can’t. You’re all I have.”

I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his chest while I held his hand between both of mine. “Just rest,” I whispered. “We’ll talk about everything when you get better.”

He started sobbing harder at that, clearly understanding exactly what everything meant.

“Please don’t leave me,” he whimpered. “Please help me.”

Before I could answer, the monitor beside him began to beep in insistent bursts. The steady rhythm fractured into something erratic. I straightened immediately, my heart slamming as the numbers on the screen spiked.

The door swung open, and a nurse hurried in, her expression shifting from routine to concern in a split second. “Okay, okay,” she said briskly, moving to the bedside. “Let’s calm this down.”

She checked the monitor, then his IV, her hands quick and practiced. “He needs to settle,” she murmured, glancing at me briefly before drawing something into a syringe. “His system’s been through a lot.”

Ryan’s grip tightened around my fingers as she injected the medication into the line. His breathing came in harsh pulls, then gradually began to even out as the drug worked its way through him.

“That’s it,” the nurse said softly. “Just let it do its job.”

The beeping slowed, returning to a steadier cadence. Ryan’s eyelids dipped, his sobs dissolving into small, exhausted breaths. His hand loosened in mine.

Within minutes, the fight drained out of him completely.

The nurse adjusted his blanket and gave me a look. “He needs rest. You need to try to keep things calm.”

Calm.

I nodded again because that seemed to be all I could do lately.

When she left, I stayed beside him, listening to the machine mark time for us both. His hand rested limp in mine.

And I understood clearly, perhaps for the first time, that keeping him alive and keeping myself alive . . . might not be the same thing.

Jagger

The report was thinner than I’d hoped.

I flipped through it anyway, leaning back in the chair in my penthouse office, one ankle hooked over my knee. Ryan’s name sat at the top of every page like an accusation. Vitals. Toxicology. Timelines. A neat, clinical summary of a man who’d survived.

I shut the folder and let it fall to the desk. “Well, I guess one part of my plan worked,” I muttered. “Don’t ever tell me I’m not a masterful plan maker.”

Cruz was staring at his phone with a frown on his face. “I can guarantee you that those words will never come out of my mouth,” he mused, “but also, you’re starting to sound like Gage.”

Now I was the one frowning. Gage was our resident murderer who took care of all the people we hated. He also drank iced milk, so I wasn’t appreciating the comparison at all. “That’s not flattering in the least bit, actually,” I griped.

“But it is accurate,” Cruz replied easily as he looked up at me. “He, too, hates when people don’t die.”

I exhaled through my nose. “Technically, he wasn’t supposed to die in my plan. I’m pretty sure I told you that already.”

Cruz’s smile widened just a fraction. “You did tell me that, and I’m pretty sure you secretly wanted the opposite.”

I leaned back farther in the chair and let my gaze drift up to the ceiling. “I haven’t been able to talk to her in days. She’s just sitting by his side. I had to dress up like a surgeon yesterday just so I could go to the hospital and see her. How long is this motherfucker going to take to get better?”

“You dressed up like a surgeon?” he asked with a snort.

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Should I be offended that you’re not stalking me enough to know that already? I had on a blue pair of scrubs, and it was definitely my color.”

Cruz huffed. “I guess at least you weren’t dressed like a nurse,” he mused.