Page 171 of Lethal Obsession

I don’t bother getting out of the car when we reach the Bellini villa. I wait long enough to see Ofelia enveloped in Lourdes’s tearful embrace, surrounded by a phalanx of security, before taking the wheel of the car. The last thing I see before pulling out and heading down the winding road at breakneck speed is Ofelia’s pale face and wide, haunted eyes.

She doesn’t try to stop me from leaving.

I think we both know it’s long past that.

Beyond a few low-voiced directions, Jack doesn’t bother trying to speak to me on the way back to the city, just makes some calls in Italian, the purpose of which, I gather from my limited knowledge of the language, is to inform the hospital to expect us—and the police to stay out of our way.

I really don’t give a fuck about either.

I’ll get what information I need to know about Lars, regardless of what any doctor says about family only, and if any cop wants to interfere, I’ll kill him.

With my bare hands, if necessary.

The glass doors open, and I stride through the reception, barely registering anything other than the directions the terrified nurse stammers out. We take a series of confusing turns to a second building, then an elevator up several floors.

Even I can understand the sign reading Terapia Intensiva on the wall when we step out.

Intensive Care.

Barely breathing, I stalk through the doors that open silently in front of us and find Benny sitting alone on a plastic seat, his head in his hands. He looks up, then leaps to his feet when I enter.

“Thank Christ,” he says bleakly. “They won’t let me see him, and they won’t tell me anything.”

I go to the receptionist window, pulling Jack with me. “Tell them,” I say coldly.

He talks quickly in Italian, then turns back to Benny and me. “He’s in surgery now—”

“Get the surgeon out here.”

“I’m not sure that—”

“Get him. Now. Or I’m going in there myself.”

Jack shakes his head slowly, but he turns back to the window and starts talking. A few minutes later, the surgeon comes through the doors, glaring at us as he tears off his mask and launching into a voluble torrent of Italian.

“Lars was shot through one eye,” Jack translates. “They’ve stabilized him, but the bullet has lodged in his brain. Removing it is beyond the skills of the acting surgeon.” He listens for a moment, then turns around again. “There’s a neurosurgeon in Rome, a Dr. Moretti, who specializes in this kind of thing, but they can’t contact her because she’s in surgery—”

“Give me your phone.” I cut him off, and Jack, taking one look at my face, hands it over. “Ask him for the name of the hospital and the person in charge.” He does so, and I get to work.

By my third phone call, and with the help of Jack’s translating, the surgeon’s glare has faded and he’s talking fast, trying to help.

Ten minutes later, I hand the phone back. “Dr. Moretti is on her way,” I say, and the surgeon’s face slumps in relief without any need of translation. He turns to Jack. “Two hours at the most,” I say, before he can ask.

The surgeon looks at me like I’m God.

Which I intend to use.

“We want to see Lars,” I say to Jack. “Tell him.”

He relays my message, and the surgeon’s face falls in a way that strikes abject fear into my heart.

“No,” Jack says quietly. “You can’t, Lex. He’s already on the table, and—”

The surgeon says something that makes Jack’s face go white.

“You can’t,” he says shortly to me. “No, Lex.” He reads the murderous intentions behind my flat expression with surprising ease. “Trust me, fuck you,” he says grimly. “You don’t want to see him like this, and allowing you in there would only put him in danger of infection. The best thing you can do for Lars is to let these people do their fucking job.”

For a white-hot moment of rage I calculate what it would take to kill him. Then I wrench myself back to sanity.