Page 17 of Conall's Reign

That should have been my first clue to back off, but something about him made me want to push. I kept my questions casual while arranging the items the doctor would need. “So, do you chop onions at home or work?”

“Home,” he said, his voice as smooth as silk. “Boy, you’re one nosy broad.”

“Anyone there to help you before you came in?” I asked, disregarding his comment. I was being overly nosy, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Nah,” he replied, adding almost as an afterthought, “I’m not really a people person.”

A chill ran through me as he shifted his gaze from his arm to my face. He appeared too calm, too collected, even while I examined the wound. His hand shot out, gripping my wrist in a vice-like hold. I gasped, startled, and tried to pull away, but he was too strong.

“You haven’t been forgotten, Francesca Santelli,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

Everything in me stilled.

“Excuse me? What are you talking about?” I stammered, my pulse pounding in my ears as I struggled to remain calm. Attempting to keep my face expressionless, the words ‘deny,’ ‘deny,’ and ‘deny’ echoed in my mind.

His grip tightened, and before I could scream or call for help, he was on his feet, his free hand wrapping around my throat. He shoved me against the wall, cutting off my air with brutal efficiency. My hands clawed at his arm, panic surging as black spots danced in my vision.

“We’re watching you,” he hissed in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. “You’re a murderer.”

I struggled as my vision narrowed, but it ended just as quickly as it began. He released me, and I crumpled to the floor, gasping for air. By the time I looked up, he was gone.

The curtain fluttered behind him, and I pressed a trembling hand to my throat. My pulse raced, and my mind spun.

?

Security was called as soonas I managed to get to my feet. The bruising on my throat was already darkening, serving as a physical reminder of the man’s words. I sat in a cramped office with one of the hospital’s security supervisors, recounting the incident for the third time to the police officers who had been summoned. My voice was hoarse, but I remained calm and methodical, sticking to the facts.

“Did he say anything?” the officer asked, his pen hovering over a notepad.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

The officer frowned, sensing the lie, but he didn’t push for more details. He simply jotted something down and nodded. “We have everything we need then, Miss Santelli. We reviewed the footage, but it only showed the corridor, and we couldn’t get a clear view. We suspect the name the patient provided will turn out to be fake. Do you have someone to take you home?”

“I’ll call someone,” I said automatically, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that.

I could call Theo, but getting across town would take her forever. It’d be easier just to take the subway. My hands shook in my lap. Notifying my brother that Cosimo Oliveto sent someone after me wasn’t a great idea since I’d have to explain why he would do that. Theo and I had sworn long ago that we’d never tell. So far, we’d kept our promise. Nobody knew but us. It was better that way. It had to be Cosimo — right?

I had tried to distance myself from the mafia world as much as possible. Even getting the police involved wasn’t exactly my decision this time. The hospital had insisted on it. After picking myself up off the floor, my hand pressed to my throat, I returned to the nursing station, attempting to shake it off. A doctor who had just seen me come out of the examining room called security. Despite my efforts to downplay the situation, his brows shot up in disbelief as he glanced at my throat and the chart papers scattered on the floor.

I didn’t bother trying to explain to Dr. Jonathon Stafford that calling security was pointless and would only create more problems for me. Dr. Stafford was one of those old-school gentlemen with hair so white it resembled cotton fluff, silver-rimmed glasses, and skin as thin as paper. Still, I appreciated the effort he had made, even after I told him it wasn’t necessary.

He’d made me sit for an exam while we waited, humming and making concerned noises, asking if he could call my mother for me. I didn’t bother explaining that even if she were around, she’d be the last person concerned that I had almost been strangled.

The office door swung open, and the person I least expected stormed in. The tension in the air changed, laden with barely contained fury. Conall.

He didn’t say a word as he stepped inside, but his presence filled the room. His eyes locked onto me, taking in the bruises. He didn’t even have a suit jacket on. I couldn’t remember a time I had seen Conall O’Kelly in just his shirt sleeves during all the years I had known him. He was always impeccably dressed, with a tie pulled tight against his throat and a pocket square. Right now, Conall looked completely disheveled. The thin cotton barrier stretched as he strode toward me in unrestrained fury.

“Who did this, Francesca? Answer me. Those are bruises.” His fingers tilted my chin so he could see.

“Mr. O’Kelly.” One of the officers nodded respectfully, and I knew right away who had called him, though I wasn’t certain why. “We’ll review the footage and let you know if we find anything,” the officer said, getting up from his seat. “But it doesn’t seem like anything will come up on it.”

“Thank you for your help, officer,” I said, my voice steady despite the exhaustion pressing down on me, rising on shaky legs as the adrenaline and events hit me in a wave. The last thing I wanted was for Conall to be too involved at the hospital. It might be too late, but the sooner I could get him out, the better. “Conall, I’m not sure why you’re here.”

His mouth tightened again as his arm wrapped around me, guiding me into the hallway, where several other O’Kelly men stood, prepared to follow us. Extra security, I figured, after the incident with the Vallones.

As soon as the door closed behind us, Conall pressed. “What the hell happened?” he asked, his voice low but vibrating with anger.

“Nothing,” I said, unsure how to handle this version of Conall that was leaking so much emotion. Typically, he was so controlled. “It’s handled.”

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