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Drago moves his gaze to the top of my head, his eyes crease in the corners. “I should have known.”
“Known what?”
“Orange bow. Like the dogs.” He laughs, then breaks out in a cough, wheezing as he struggles for breath.
I press my lips together as a half laugh, half sob threatens to burst out of me. “I knew you’d love it.”
My voice breaks, and I swallow hard, struggling to keep my composure and my balance. Whoever is behind the wheel seems to be driving like a maniac. I feel every bump, every curve in the road, the side of my head hitting the back of the passenger seat with every shift.
“I love every single thing about you, my glittery little spy.” He turns his hand, entwining his fingers with mine.
“Even my chicken jacket?”
“Especially”—he takes a shallow breath—“especially your chicken jacket,mila moya.”
I can’t hold the tears at bay anymore, so I let them fall. “I love you, Drago.”
A faint smile pulls at his lips. “I know.”
His hand trails along my arm to my neck, pulling me down to whisper next to my ear. “I fell in love with you the moment I saw you in that dreadful gold onesie.”
I close my eyes and press my lips to his. “Please, don’t leave me.”
The car screeches to an abrupt halt. The doors fly open, and people in medical scrubs lift Drago, putting him on a gurney. By the time I scramble out of the car, they are already bursting through the sliding doors of the hospital.
My eyes are glued on their retreating backs as I run, run after them and my husband. I’m not letting him out of my sight.
* * *
My blood-covered palms press to the glass as I stare at the doctors and nurses gathered around the operating table. One of the medical staff insisted on me staying in the waiting room, but I told her I’d kill anyone who tries to keep me away from my husband. She must have believed me because shortly after I was escorted to this small observation lounge. That was hours ago.
“He’s going to be fine,” a female voice says next to me.
“You don’t know that,” I croak, not bothering to look at the person who’s spoken.
“Trust me. My mother-in-law has more experience with gunshot wounds than the entire emergency department of a New York City hospital.” She taps her nail on the glass window. “She’s the classy lady who’s currently elbows-deep inside your husband’s chest. Ilaria.”
I steal a quick glance at the woman by my side. Milene Ajello. The don’s wife.
“Last week, I saw her digging out a bullet from Pietro’s thigh with her bare hands,” she continues. “Sometimes, I really fucking hate this life, you know?”
“But you still married our don,” I say, back to keeping my vigil over what’s happening in the operating room.
“Yeah, well, he kinda threatened to start a war if I didn’t.” Milene’s tone is serious, but in the reflection of the glass, I see her lips curl into a smile. “If I wasn’t mad as hell at him at the time, I might have thought it was romantic.”
I find it hard to imagine Salvatore Ajello being considered romantic. It’s akin to calling a guillotine adorable.
“Does it ever get easier? Being scared all the time? Worrying that something bad will happen?” I ask.
“No. Not really.” She wraps her fingers around my forearm and squeezes lightly. “It’s how it is when you’re in love with a dangerous man.”
We both stare into the OR. They must be wrapping up. The frantic pace and urgency that enveloped the room when the surgery began has eased, and I decide it’s a good sign.
“Would you like me to find you a change of clothes?” Another squeeze to my arm. “You’re covered in blood.”
“I’ll ask Jovan to get me something,” I say, keeping my gaze glued on Drago. With so many medical personnel around him, I can only catch a glimpse of his arm and legs.
Milene leaves, her footfalls echoing through the hallway as they recede. Inside the OR, the don’s mother steps away from the operating table and takes off her blue surgical gown and gloves, throwing the garments into the trash can. She pulls down her mask next while addressing a nurse at her side.
