Page 65 of Savage Prince

Fuck. The answer is so obvious it’s embarrassing. I’m a sucker for lost causes, for fucked up men. And now, I just have to know how he got those scars, those burns. What hell had he gone through? Falling for the man who kidnapped you is the worst of all cliches. And here I amthatgirl. I guess it happens to the best of us. It is how my Aunt Stella and Uncle Luca got together…

Pressing my fingers to my temples, I force my thoughts to stop their endless rambling. If I am staying with Antonio until this is over, I need to get him to a doctor. Forcing myself up, I slide to the end of the lounger and reach for his bare shoulder. The bandage he’d insisted on securing across his back has bled through.Shit. “Antonio,” I whisper. “Antonio, wake up.”

I give him a little shake, but he doesn’t move. My fingers clutch onto his shoulder a little tighter, and his skin scalds my palm. Oh, no, he’s burning up.

“Antonio!” A shrill cry laces my tone as I jump off the lounge chair and hover over him.

Peeling off the bandage, I find the wound at his chest. There’s inflamed, red, infected skin rising around the thread I used to sew him up. Ugh, I’m such an idiot. Why did I ever think that would work? I’m not Bella, I’m not a fucking doctor. His breathing is labored, his chest rising and falling much too sluggishly.

“Why won’t you wake up?” I shout at him, slapping his face a little too forcefully. “Please, wake up.”

He’s going to die. If I don’t get him to a hospital, it’s inevitable. I don’t have antibiotics and clearly that wound is infected. I glance at my watch and hiss out a curse. It’s barely seven. Should I risk driving him into town on the boat? And if whoever sent those men are still around, I will have condemned us both to death.

Shit, what else can I do?

Antonio’s phone is probably at the bottom of the lake by now and every damned person I know in Como is dead. Except for… Elena, the doctor. Damn it, what was her last name? Bergamo, no, Barga—Bergamaschi! I jump to my feet, letting the towel fall away and scramble for my clothes. I could get him on the boat and—shit, he’s so heavy and even if I do get him on the boat, I can’t just leave him tethered to some dock. No, I can leave Antonio here, take the boat into town alone and ask around for thedottoressa. If Como is like any typical Italian town, someone will know where to find her.

Still, I hate the idea of leaving him here alone and completely unprotected.Suck it up, Serena. There is no other option.

As I slip on the sweats, Antonio’s musky scent somehow still lingers on the material. The fact that it brings a smile to my face only confirms I’ve lost my damned mind. I spot the gun on the counter and slide it into my sweatpants. Just in case.

The logical part of me says I’ll keep it in case I get a chance to escape, but the other demented part knows I won’t leave him, not like this. I glance at Antonio’s form sprawled out on the lounger and for a second, I freeze. I’m terrified of what will happen if I fail. Grabbing one of the discarded towels, I pour some bottled water I found in the cabinet on one end and press the cool towel to his forehead.

Dio, his skin is on fire.

Dousing the towel in more water, I cover his entire body, hoping it’ll help with the fever. If I had more time, I’d drop him into the lake, but I doubt I’d be able to move the giant myself. Pressing a quick kiss to his forehead, I squeeze his hand. “I’ll be back, hold on.”

A groan purses his lips, and I freeze again. “Antonio? Can you hear me?” I wait an endless moment.

Nothing.

“Please don’t die.” Something I never thought I’d say to Antonio Ferrara.

Before I lose my nerve, I shove my feet into my sneakers and race out of the boathouse.

The air is brisk as I pull up to the small dock around the cove. I don’t dare leave the boat so close to the center of town where anyone could stumble across it. At least here, it’s partially covered by the sprawling trees. Cutting the engine, I prop the old fisherman’s hat I found among the tattered tarps on the top of my head, hiding my long, blonde curls. Then I leap out of the old Riva and pat the gun hidden in the oversized pocket of Antonio’s sweatpants.Dio, if Santi saw me now, he’d never recognize me. Which is exactly what I’m hoping.

I dart across the creaking wooden boards of the weather-worn dock and step onto the sidewalk that rims the scenic views of Lago di Como. Dozens of tourists mill about, taking pictures with their families, and I easily weave in and out of the pedestrian traffic. Now, the question is: where do I go to ask about Elena?

I eye the quaint old town center with the cobble-stoned roads and bright pastel storefronts. There’s agelateria, a fresh fruit market, dozens of restaurants and… a post office! I dart across the street, nearly getting run over by a bike rider, and rush inside over the sounds of his Italian curses.

Inside, it’s nearly empty, with just one elderly woman hunched over a counter licking stamps to place on a tower of envelopes.

“Buongiorno,” I call out to the man behind the counter.

The gray-haired, middle-aged man gives me a toothy grin. “Buongiorno, signorina. How can I help you?”

Clearing my throat, I tip the wide-brimmed hat back and steel my nerves. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten lost. I’m supposed to be on my way to seeDottoressaElena Bergamaschi, but I’ve lost my cell which had her phone number and address.”

“Ah, I see.” The man’s lips curve into a frown, and he rubs at his mustache. “Mi dispiace, but as a government employee, I can’t give out the personal information of a resident. I wish I could, but you see, my hands are really tied.”

“Please, it’s urgent. Couldn’t you make a special exception this one time?” If I had cash, I’d throw a few Euro to sweeten the deal.

“Mi dispiace, I’m sorry,” he repeats.

The tiny flicker of hope dissipates, and fear strangles my lungs in a vice grip. If I don’t find her, Antonio could die. I shouldn’t give a shit, but damn it, I do. And I can’t even tell these people what’s happening in case those guys are looking for us. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and my throat tightens. I bring down the sloping brim of the hat to hide my face before the tears spill over.

The mailman starts to mumble more apologies in Italian, but it does nothing to fill the sprawling void opening up in my chest. A tears spills over, then another and another, and there’s nothing I can do stop the waterfall. It’s a combination of weeks of pent-up fear, anger and frustration.

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