Page 112 of Wicked Rivals

Not a damn thing. At least not now.

“Why don't you go back to your room and lie down?” I suggested. “Get some rest until dinner’s ready.”

With perfect timing for once, the doctor returned and got to work on my arm.

But my son didn’t go to his room. He stood in front of me and stared at me.

“No,” he said. “I won't let you go get her without me.”

“Enzo,” I growled.

“No,” he repeated.

I shook my head and narrowed my eyes in warning, but that strong, determined boy from the night before had come back.

He balled his hands into fists.

“I'm serious, Mr. Vignali. I’m going with you when you get her back.”

I winced.

My own son had called me “Mr. Vignali.” We needed to get that ironed out soon. But not without Val.

“Okay, I understand,” I said.

And I did. But it didn’t mean I really planned to take him along and risk his life again.

“You’ve been through a lot today, Enzo. I want you to rest right now, so when it's time to leave, you feel better. Can you do that for me?”

He stared at me, his eyes narrowed, mirroring my own as he searched through my bullshit for the truth, but then he nodded.

Good. Some progress.

He left just as the doctor finished bandaging my arm.

“That was a good move,” the doc said.

“What was?” I asked.

He snipped the last length of new sutures, then packed his supplies in his medical bag.

“Getting the boy to rest. Physically, he's fine. A few bruises and scrapes. Nothing to worry about. But the emotional toll is much worse. It might take a while for him to shake this off. That's assuming you get his mother back.”

“And what if I don't?” I asked.

I had nothing to go on. I didn’t have any idea who the fuck had her, where he had her, or even how to tell the man he’d gotten what he wanted, that I’d called off the wedding.

“You cross that bridge if you come to it. That’s an important part of parenthood, crossing bridges only when you must.”

I nodded, understanding the notion but not liking it. Lying to my son made my stomach turn. But I had no other alternative. I would not fucking tell him that he might lose his mother.

Nor would I admit defeat.

“I hope everything turns out well. I really do,” the doc said, shaking my hand. “And if you need anything at all, you know how to reach me. But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my friend at this point. She’s a very good child psychiatrist who could help your son process his emotions. Grief too, if needed.”

I nodded again and thanked him. He wanted to be helpful, I knew, but I couldn't entertain the idea of failure.

After getting back to my desk, I spent a few minutes really studying the photograph of Val.

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