Page 201 of Bishop

Lorenzo limps from the shadows onto the lawn, his driver by his side. He glances between us, searching for something, his gaze finally landing on Bishop’s limp body.

He stops. Frozen.

My bottom lip trembles as understanding dawns on his aged features.

“Is he dead?” His attention turns to me, his eyes pained.

“I…” I shake my head, cradling Tilly close to my chest. “I don’t know. I can’t look.”

His face softens, pity staring back at me as he continues toward us. But I don’t want him here. Don’t want anyone else to enter my bubble of misery.

“Wait.” I pull in a shuddering breath.

I don’t want to be told Bishop is dead. I need to be the one to break the news.

He risked his life for me. The least I can do is confirm his sacrifice.

I cradle Tilly’s head, just like Bishop must have when he hit the floor, and slowly lower my gaze to his body. I stare at his hands, the strong fingers, the calloused palms.

My mother chuckles.

It takes everything inside me not to climb to my feet and scratch her heart out.

I drag my gaze up the sleeve of his trademark suit, along his broad shoulder, and press my lips tight as I reach his face.

His eyes are closed. Mouth parted. Skin pale.

I scrunch my nose against renewed tears as I stare at him.

He might almost seem at peace if it weren’t for the sickening gash on the right side of his face, a bullet wound tearing through his cheek, the seeping blood covering his nose and trailing to his jaw.

Dark, deep scratches mar his forehead, the skin already bruising from where he must have collided with the wooden floor.

I look away, instead reaching for his outstretched arm, sliding my palm over his to guide his hand back to his side. Even now, destroyed and mutilated, he’s beautiful. His strength. His sacrifice.

I’ve never been more devoted. More destroyed.

I wish I could tell him how thankful I am. How important he became to me in such a short space of time.

A storm of grief threatens to overwhelm me, and I can’t break down in front of Tilly, not when she’s already suffered enough.

I squeeze his fingers. They squeeze back.

I snap my gaze to his face.

His eyes remain closed, his mouth still open. But that hand continues to hold me in a fragile grip.

“Bishop?” I scamper closer on my knees, Tilly glancing over her shoulder at him. “Don’t look, sweetheart.” I tilt my shoulders, trying to avert her gaze. “Bishop, can you hear me?”

I place a hand to his sternum, the thudding beat of his heart pounding beneath my palm.

I shake my head in disbelief, not trusting that I’m not hallucinating. “Bishop, talk to me.”

“Belladonna,” he croaks.

Oh, my God.

I glance to Remy and Salvo standing over our mother, still kneeling in the yard. “He needs an ambulance.”

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