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Gabriella
When I regain consciousness, I’m in a hospital room. Carter and Dominic are sitting silently on either side of my bed. They spring to their feet when I open my eyes. “Gabby,” Carter exhales. “Thank heavens.”
Intense relief flashes on Dominic’s face. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit with a baseball bat. What time is it?”
“Twelve-thirty.”
“In the morning?” I’ve been unconscious for forty minutes, give or take. I do a cautious survey. My head aches, but I don’t see blood anywhere. “I didn’t get shot, did I?”
“No. Ed knocked you out of the way.” Carter closes his eyes. “If he hadn’t…” His voice trails off.
“Did he get shot? Is he okay?”
“He’s mostly fine. His ribs need some attention. He re-injured them when he hit the ground. His doctor had many choice words about his decision-making process. Or lack thereof.”
“I would have died if he hadn’t been there.”
Carter draws in a shuddering breath. “I know. Trust me, I’m acutely aware he saved your life.”
I experimentally try to sit up. The room swims around me, but the dizziness fades when I hold very still. “What’s going on with me? Concussion?”
“Yes. They just did a CT scan. We’re waiting for the results.”
“I feel okay. A bit dizzy.” I lie back in bed. “Plaid Guy—”
“Is dead.” Carter’s voice is flat. “The bartender shot him. He was a banker with an out-of-control gambling problem. I guess the losses got too much to bear. He snapped.”
“What about Denton Mitchell?”
“Also dead. Vittoria was grazed by a bullet. She’ll recover.”
“Oh.” So many deaths. “Remind me to never tell my parents about this night,” I murmur. “They will give me a lecture on gun violence and insist I move back to London.” A sudden need to get the hell away from here overwhelms me. I want to be back in my room in the Grand River, soaking in a cool bath. Maybe I can talk Dominic and Carter into joining me again.
“Ms. Alves.” A young woman knocks on the door and enters the room. “I’m Doctor Rosenthal. You’re awake, good. How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts, and I’m a little dizzy.”
“Any ringing in your ears?”
“No.”
“Are you nauseous?”
“No.”
“Is your vision blurry? Do you feel like you’re in a fog?”
I shake my head again. “Just the headache.”
She puts me through a cognitive exam, and then nods. “Okay. I have the results of your CT scan. I’d say you have a mild concussion. Lots of rest for the next three or four days. Make sure you sleep a minimum of ten hours a day. Your brain needs to heal, so limit your screen time to the bare minimum. Nothing strenuous, no video games, no flashing lights, no alcohol, no sex. We like to keep patients overnight to observe them—”
“Can I go home?”
She considers me and then nods. “You can be observed at home, yes. Do you have a caregiver, someone who will monitor you for the next twenty-four hours and bring you in if your condition worsens?”
“Yes,” both Dominic and Carter reply in unison.
Dr. Rosenthal raises an eyebrow. “That’s good,” she says. “Remember, Ms. Alves. Lots of rest.”
They take me home.I take a cool shower with them hovering within sight, and then Dominic and Carter pile me into bed and settle on either side of me. I’m feeling a lot better. “No sex, according to Dr. Rosenthal,” I pout. “That doesn’t seem right.”
Carter nuzzles my neck. “Can you ever forgive us?” he asks. “We shouldn’t have let you go to the poker game. We should have stopped you. We almost got you killed.”
I hold up my hand. “I wanted to go. None of us could have predicted that Plaid Guy would shoot up the place. Unless you can see the future?” I draw in a deep breath. “It’s over. I’m fine. Everyone is safe. I love you and you love me.” I pinch myself, and no, I’m not dreaming.
The two of them are still holding my hands. I gambled and I won, and I’m giddy with joy. I pull Dominic and Carter closer, hugging them tight. “Why dwell on the past? The future is waiting.”
