“He has what looks like a bullet wound to his right side and a large knife gash on the back of his arm,” I tell him.
He nods once and sets to work. Opening his duffle bag, he seems to have everything he needs. He begins working on Kostas’s side, just above his hip, while his assistant helps him, grabbing various tools and such.
Needing to feel like I’m doing something, I grab a washcloth from a cabinet and wet it with cool water. Without getting in the way, I sit next to Kostas’s head and pat his forehead with the cool washcloth.
His eyes flutter open just long enough for our eyes to meet before they close again, and my heart squeezes in my chest. I’ve never seen Kostas look so vulnerable and weak. He must be in so much pain.
“Did you give him pain medication?” I ask, worried he’s suffering.
“Yes,” the doctor responds. “But only the minimum. He doesn’t like to be sedated.”
His words make me realize this isn’t the first time he’s had to fix my husband. And that thought has me wondering how many times he’s come close to dying. How many more times will his life be at risk? How long do I have with him until one day his life—or mine—is taken? I married a powerful man, who many people would love to see brought down. Every day I spend with him is on borrowed time.
The thought has me choking back a sob. If I were with a man like Alex, this never would’ve happened. We’d be safe at home, running lines for an upcoming play. No, that’s not true. If I were still with Alex, we would’ve already graduated.
But then I would’ve never met Kostas. I would’ve never known what it’s like to fall in love with a man who has the ability to consume every part of my mind, body, and soul.
I would’ve never found myself. My sense of purpose. What I had with Alex, might’ve been safe, but it was boring. Alex didn’t make my heart pound against my chest the way Kostas does. Going to school was fun, but it didn’t pull the passion out of me like creating Pomegranate did. Alex was sweet, but he didn’t challenge me the way Kostas does.
I would’ve never had Zoe. With her dark hair identical to her father’s, and my blue eyes, she’s the perfect mixture of the two of us. She’s only a baby, but I can already see both of us weaved through her. My sass and determination, and Kostas’s strength and bravery.
I didn’t understand it at the time, but it wasn’t until I married Kostas that I finally found my place in this world. It’s not spitting lines in a playhouse, or traveling with friends. It’s right here on this island, at this hotel with my husband and daughter. I love being Kostas’s wife, being Zoe’s mom.
And all I want is to be given the chance to continue to be both. Which means I need my husband to live, and I need to get my daughter back.
Right now, the only possible lead we have to go on are the men being held in the cellar. If Kostas doesn’t wake up soon, I’m going to have to interrogate them myself. There’s no way Kostas would want everyone sitting around waiting for him to get better while that asshole and his evil sidekick are getting farther and farther away with our daughter.
Moving the washcloth off Kostas’s forehead, I lean down to give him a kiss. “I love you,” I whisper. “I need you to be okay.”
Kostas groans. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He gives me a lazy smirk that shoots straight to my belly. Butterflies. Even hurt, he can still manage to turn my insides out. He just has that effect on me.
I watch in silence while the doctor works on Kostas’s side and then turns him slightly over to work on the back of his arm. After what feels like hours, the doctor sits straight and pulls off his latex gloves, handing them to his assistant.
“All done,” the doctor says. “The bullet that entered his side has been removed, and he’s been stitched up. An inch more to the left and it would’ve hit a kidney.” He hands me a bottle of pills. “Here’s an antibiotic for him, so it doesn’t get infected.”
“And the arm?” Kostas asks, shocking me when he opens his eyes and attempts to sit up.
“Whoa,” I chide. “You can’t move.” I place my hand on his arm, and thankfully, he doesn’t try to sit up anymore.
“It was deep, cut through some muscle,” the doctor says. “Needed twenty stitches. But it could’ve been worse. Could’ve hit a lung.” He turns his attention to Kostas. “You are very lucky. It’s going to take some time for it to heal.” Kostas nods in understanding. “Try to make sure not to use that arm too much while it’s healing.”