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My heart jerks in shock, and then my memory rushes back, flooding my brain with everything I don’t want to remember.
My voice comes out as a croak. “Angelo.”
“Your husband is on his way,” the woman says. “We contacted him when you showed the first signs of waking.” She pats my arm. “It may take him a good hour to get here though. He was in Bastia when he took the call.”
I nod and swallow.
“Shall we get rid of the cannulas?” Not waiting for my answer, she removes the prongs and the tube. “You’re doing great.”
I read her name tag. Dr. Casanova.
She adjusts the bed so that I’m in an inclined position. I flinch at the pain in my ribs.
“Here.” She holds a cup with a straw to my mouth. “Take a small sip.” When I’ve swallowed a little water, she puts the cup aside. “I’ll give you some morphine for the pain.”
“No,” I say quickly. “I want to be lucid.”
“I get that. You’ve been out for forty-eight hours. If you need a painkiller, just press this button.” She shows me a red button that lies on the bedcovers.
“Thank you,” I say, already exhausted from the few words I spoke.
“You’ll get your strength back soon.”
A ball forms in my stomach. I know instinctively. I saw the blood. But I have to be sure. I’ll carry on hoping until I ask, and hoping is too cruel. “The baby?”
She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Russo. You miscarried.”
I nod again, a lump lodging in my throat. The loss is devastating. A part of me already started grieving when I came to my senses on the floor in the kitchen, but I’m still not ready for the blow. I’m intimately familiar with the process of mourning. It’s going to take time. If dealing with my dad’s death taught me anything, it’s not to lock the pain up inside. I can’t harbor another storm that wreaks havoc in my chest.
“Like I told your husband,” the doctor continues, “there’s no reason why you can’t try again. None of the damage is permanent.” She pauses. “A police officer from the village came around. He asked to see you when you’re conscious.”
“I understand.”
She smiles. “I’ll have a meal sent, a little soup to start with.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to return her smile, but the gesture doesn’t come naturally.
I must’ve dosed off again, because when I open my eyes, a bowl of soup waits on the trolley, and a man I don’t know stands next to the bed.
Alarm rushes through me. The beep on the monitor next to me speeds up with the crazy beat of my heart.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Russo,” he says. “I’m Officer Bartoli. I’m only here to ask you a few questions.”
I blow out a silent sigh. For a terrifying moment, I thought my attackers had come back to finish the job they’d started, although this man isn’t dressed in combat gear, and his head isn’t shaved.
“May I see proof of identity?” I ask.
“Of course.”
He takes a badge from his inside jacket pocket and shows it to me. He’s barely put it away when the door crashes against the wall and a tall, formidable figure fills the doorframe.
The man taking up all the space in the room is dark and handsome in a storybook way, but the darkness reaches all the way to his soul. He’s wearing jeans and a roll neck sweater under a leather jacket, the clothes hugging his powerful frame. His face is both beautiful and frightening, like that of a fallen angel. His features are harsh, the hard lines emphasizing his straight nose and strong cheekbones. A couple of days’ worth of scruff darkens his square jaw. Black, feverish eyes pierce mine.
Angelo.
Officer Bartoli turns. “Mr. Russo.”
Angelo ignores him, making his way over with long strides and taking my hand in a crushing grip. “Cara.” He kisses my palm before brushing a hand over my brow. “How are you feeling, my angel? Can I get you anything?”
