“She’s okay,” Delaney says, stepping into my view and placing a hand on each of my shoulders. “Nate, she needs the hospital. I can do a lot here, but I need to do extensive blood work on her and run more tests.”
It takes a long moment for me to absorb her words. I dislike dealing with the public and the newspapers trying to get their scoop on the region’s top gangster. Public hospitals mean our business can slip through tight cracks and expose things we don’t want known.
“Nate!” Chantelle yells this time and I turn to look at her, my brows furrowing. “Malia is going to die if we don’t get her to a proper medical center.”
Die.
I just got her back, and not even whole. She is breathing, but her mind is still lost to us. I have the shell, but not my daughter. I will not risk her life when we have come this far. Not for the sake of avoiding a public scandal.
“Do it,” I croak. “Save her.”
Delaney nods, barking orders at Xana and some of my men to get Malia on the move to the hospital. Chantelle wraps her arms around my waist and I try to focus on her, greedily taking everything that she has to offer me right now.
A bang sounds as the door crashes open. The cold muzzle of a pistol presses against the back of my head, a feeling with which I am all too familiar. Chantelle stiffens and I hug her closer.
“Liam,” I growl, finally finding some semblance of the sanity that fled when Malia passed out in the vehicle and started to seize for the first time. Thankfully we were almost home when that happened.
“Keep me from her again and I won’t hold back,” he grinds out, taking the weapon away from my head with a shove, before moving to help his sister and the doctor move Malia.
He did not need to see her like this. Not after finding out he lost a child and the horrific things that happened to her while in Elio’s hands. I watch as Liam scoops her out of the bed, cradling her against his chest. His features are hard, but there is panic and heartbreak behind his eyes as he looks her over. Delaney leads everyone out of the room.
“Oren pulled the cleaner van up to the front,” Donovan says behind me.
I do not answer. I follow silently, staring at the back of the man holding my baby girl. She is fighting death and we have no way to help her do it.
Liam moves Malia’s head to his shoulder, likely seeking the ghost of her breath against his neck for reassurance. As he readjusts his hold, her arm slips out from between their bodies to dangle limply at his side. Staring at that too-thin arm, I only now take in the unhealthy pallor of her skin. The muted grays of death shadow its layers.
This has to be the most terrifying thing I have ever seen.
We have been sitting in the hospital room with Malia for hours. Not once has she opened her eyes. The steadypingof the monitor signaling Malia’s heart rate is doing nothing to ease our worry. The beats fluctuate from too high to too low, only easing into a normal rhythm within the last thirty minutes.
Liam sits next to her, as close as possible short of climbing in the bed with her. Their hands are interlocked, his thumb swiping back and forth across her skin more for his comfort than hers, I know.
Delaney was able to start running tests once Malia’s body relaxed enough. From a full panel of bloodwork and brain scan to a rape kit. Xana came along with us, and Delaney allowed her to continue to help while she stayed close to her brother. Every now and then, she will check on him, asking if he needs anything, but he just stares. Stares at the rise and fall of Malia’s chest as if he does not trust the monitor to alert us if anything happens.
I understand his reasons. He watches to see her take every breath; to make sure she does not fade away and nothing steals her away from us again should the machine miss it.
Delaney strides in holding a tablet and a file. I know the file is Malia’s medical history. As good as Hazel is, I do not trust the tech these days with information like that. In our line of work, some things need to stay on paper so it is easier to burn them and make them disappear.
When Delaney begins tapping away at the tablet, searching for whatever it is she is looking for, I notice Xana slinking closer to her brother, her grim expression deepening since she left this room and came back.
I know what we are about to hear is bad.
“The bloodwork shows Ricci mixed the lorazepam with fentanyl.”
We all suck in a breath when she lays down the first piece of the puzzle.
“Stimulants alone can be a fatal drug to withdraw from, adding in opioids will quicken the body’s dependence on the drugs. With that mixture speeding up the addiction process, her level of dependency at this point makes sense. Both of those together”—she shakes her head—“Nate, Malia is lucky he didn’t overdose her.”
“How long will she be like this?” I ask.
Delaney looks over at Malia and frowns.
“The first forty-eight hours are going to be the hardest. She will go through different stages as her body rids itself of the toxins. Malia is stable now, but in fifteen minutes she could seize again. It is up to her to fight this, to come out of it on her own. She is young, fit, and otherwise healthy, so she has that on her side. All we can do is help her where we can until she gets through the worst of it.”
“That’s it?” Donovan croaks.
Xana shakes her head and places a comforting hand on Liam’s shoulder.