“She’s tough,” I admit.
“Yeah, she’s tough. She’ll be okay, but she needs you. Get to Moscow as soon as you can.”
“I’m on my way to the airport right now.”
“Good. I’ll get on the next flight out from New York. I’ll see you when I get there.”
It doesn’t bother me that he wants to see her too. I don’t care about anything other than Layla making it out alive. She has to. She has no right to leave me. Not now that she agreed to marry me. Not after all the shit, we went through. Not when we’re so fucking close to peace.
If there’s any justice in the world, then she’ll be just fine. And that’s what I pray for. That’s what I beg of God, the Devil, providence, fate, and everything that springs to mind. The rational part of my brain knows praying won’t do much more than calm my conscience, so I reach for the phone again to call the one person whose medical skills I trust endlessly. There’s not enough time for him to fly out with me, but he can board the next flight at ten a.m.
“Who should I keep alive this time?” Carlton chirps, fresh as a daisy. Muffled sounds in the background suggest he’s at the hospital. “Dante? What happened?”
“It’s Layla... she got hit. They’re operating.”
“Which hospital?”
“She’s not in Chicago. She’s in Moscow. The next flight leaves at ten. Can you make it?”
“Of course.”
Not one question or complaint. Not a second of hesitation. He didn’t even give me a chance to saythank youbefore he cut the call.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dante
Not one of Anatolij’s pawns waits to pick me up from the airport in Moscow. Julij’s there, sitting by the arrivals gate, staring at the screen of his phone, a suitcase beside him.
“How did you get here before me?” I ask.
He peers up. The look on his face matches what I’m going through inside. Bloodshot, puffy eyes, and a pale face; a true testament to his feelings... I couldn’t care less.
Nothing matters except Layla. I want to see her, be with her, and I want her to look at me with those beautiful, big, gray eyes of hers.
“I landed half an hour ago. Don’t forget it’s a direct flight from New York. You had a change-over in Warsaw, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. How’s Layla?”
“Stable,” he pushes all air down his nose and tucks the phone away, getting to his feet. “She was in surgery for almost four hours. She’s still unconscious. I spoke to Anatolij. I’ve never heard him so shaken up before, Dante. He’s taking this really hard. Try not to kill the guy, alright?”
Julij still has no idea my soon-to-be-wife and the love of his life is, in fact, his cousin. This is neither the time nor place to drop that kind of a bomb on him.
“I’m sure he did more than he could to keep her safe, Julij. I don’t blame him. How is he doing?”
“That’s not what I expected, but I’m glad you see it that way. I don’t know how he’s doing. He says he’s fine.”
We leave the building and hop into the car Julij rented. Neither of us speaks as he navigates the maze of Moscow’s streets. Less than half an hour later, we walk through the long hospital corridors side-by-side, climbing several flights of stairs and passing hundreds of small rooms on our way to the private suite in the intensive care unit.
My step falters as we reach room number six-hundred and twenty-two. I’m afraid to go inside. I’m afraid I’ll break down. I’m afraid I’ll lose my shit when I see the most important person in my life unconscious in a hospital bed. I close my eyes briefly, inhaling a deep breath. The door swings open, pushed by both of my hands, my eyes on the floor for the first two seconds.
The potent, irritating smell of disinfectant hits the back of my nose. The hum of life-support machines fills the air: heart monitor, pulse oximeter, mechanical ventilator. That last one turns my stomach. I let my eyes roam over the bed, starting with the white sheets, then climbing up slowly to Layla’s face.
Her light, pale skin tone blends into the sheets but she looks calm. Peaceful. If not for the patient monitors around the bed, I could easily believe she’s asleep, not unconscious. Her blood pressure is low. Her heartbeats are slower than I remember her heart beating three weeks ago under my fingertips.
Multiple IVs drip through long, plastic tubes and into the veins on her hands. A part of the dressing covering the gunshot wound on her chest peeks from underneath the bedsheet.
On elastic legs, I walk further inside the room one step at a time. The door behind my back opens with a quiet creak. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know it’s Julij. He sucks in a harsh breath, equally as distraught by the sight of Layla as I am. I lean over her and press a gentle kiss on her forehead. She’s warm, but her lips are almost blue. Long eyelashes cast small shadows on her bony cheeks. Even now, she’s so fucking beautiful I’m not sure why she’s with me. She could make any man beg. I sit in the chair beside the bed when Julij stops at the foot, eyes on the mechanical ventilator helping my star breathe.