Page 56 of Charming Villain

He lifts a hand to stop me. “You will. I promise.” His voice is uncharacteristically gentle, making me want to punch something and pull him closer at the same time. “But you nearly died, Luc. You had a fuck ton of internal bleeding. You were delirious with a fever for three days. Even now, you’re on the mend, but you’re not okay.”

I grit my teeth, frustration flaring. “I don’t care about me. I care about Gianna.”

“Don’t you think she cares about you?” Dante retorts. “Let me tell you what happened; then you can do what you’re going to do.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Giovanni. You remember shooting him, right?”

Suddenly, everything floods back—Giovanni in the motel, Gianna in tears, a gun pressed against her forehead, my finger on the trigger of my own gun. Another wave of nausea rolls through me. “I remember.” My mind conjures the moment in excruciating detail: the muzzle flash, the recoil, the rush of horror and satisfaction and fury all twisted into one. “He was bleeding out when I heard the police sirens.”

Dante nods slowly. “The medics tried to save him. But the bullet tore through his abdominal artery. Too much blood loss too quickly. There was nothing they could do. He died on the way to the hospital.”

A strange numbness wraps around my heart, a reaction I can’t quite define. Relief? Horror? The man tried to murder my wife. He tried to murder my Gianna. My instincts tell me to feel triumphant that he can’t hurt her again, but something is wrong.

I swallow, my mouth dry. “Good,” I reply, though the word tastes bitter. “He can’t hurt her anymore.”

Dante inclines his head in agreement but doesn’t speak. The silence that follows is thick, a thousand emotions swirling with nowhere to land. Finally, I scrape out the question we both know I’m desperate for. “Gianna. Please. I need to know—where is she? Is she okay? Did the police?—?”

He cuts me off, voice dropping. “She’s… not okay, exactly.” Dread threads through my veins as Dante carefully continues. “After you passed out, she went into shock. The cops tried to separate her from you, but she fought them. She started… she started bleeding. They rushed her to the hospital as well despite the fact that she had no visible signs of a gunshot wound.” His gaze flicks to the monitors behind me like he can’t stand to meet my eyes. “She’s pregnant.”

I breathe in shallow bursts, the world narrowing to that single word. “That’s what her letter said.” A shudder rattles down my spine. “Or what she thought might be the case. She wasn’t sure.”

Dante’s expression is grim. “The doctors were worried she was miscarrying. Between the stress and the physical strain—she collapsed right there in the hotel parking lot.” He exhales, rubbing his temples. “They’ve been monitoring her. They say it could go either way. Her hCG levels are still rising, which is a good sign, but they’re not convinced she’s out of the woods yet.”

A hollow ache grips my chest so deep I almost stop breathing. Giovanni’s cruelty reverberates even after his death, threatening the life of my child—ourchild. And Gianna, she must be petrified. Dealing with this all alone. “Take me to her,” I demand, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. My stomach screams in protest as I try to swing my legs off the bed.

“Luc,” Dante starts, placing a hand on my shoulder to hold me in place. “Calm down. The bullet nicked your intestines. If you tear those stitches, you could start bleeding again. You almost died. She needs you alive, not sprinting around the hospital like a maniac.”

“I can’t just stay here while she’s in some other room, maybe losing our baby. What kind of man would that make me?”

Dante’s jaw tightens. “Give me five minutes to get a nurse. We’ll do this the right?—”

But his words are cut off by the shrill beep of alarms as I yank out my IV line. A spurt of blood trickles from the needle site, but I barely register the sting. The heart monitor leaps in alarm, the line on the screen going into chaotic peaks and valleys. I grit my teeth and shove the bed sheets aside. The world spins dangerously for an instant, a wave of dizziness that nearly knocks me flat.

“God damn it, Luc,” Dante curses, lunging to steady me. “You want to kill yourself?”

I shake my head, blinking past the black spots dancing in my vision. “No. I want to see my wife.” The tubes taped to my chest pull uncomfortably as I begin detaching them, each beep ratcheting up my panic. “Help me stand,” I grind out.

He tries to protest, but he knows me too well. He knows I’ll crawl if I have to. With a low, frustrated growl, Dante slips an arm under my shoulder and helps me to my feet. My hospital gown is open in the back, the chill of the air sending goosebumps over my skin. The dull ache in my abdomen blooms into a fierce stab, and I stagger, leaning heavily on my brother.

“Easy,” he mutters, hooking a hand around my waist so I won’t collapse. “This is insane.”

I force my lips into a thin line, fighting a wave of nausea. “I don’t care,” I hiss at him. A nurse bursts into the room, wide-eyed at the sight of me upright with trailing wires and dripping blood from the IV site. She starts babbling about how I need to lie down and how my vitals are going haywire. Her voice is merely an annoying buzz in my ears. “Where’s Gianna?”

The nurse looks to Dante for guidance, but I pin her with a glare. “My wife,” I say louder. “Where is she?”

She stammers, “S-she’s in the maternity ward. Room 312, but sir, you can’t just?—”

I’m already moving, ignoring the searing pain. My legs feel like wet sand, but adrenaline fuels each step. The nurse tries to block our way, but Dante waves her off with an expression of resignation. I can feel the slow seep of fresh blood through the bandages on my abdomen.

Dante ducks under my arm, half carrying me as we stumble into the hallway. The overhead lights are glaring white, and every antiseptic corridor looks the same. Nurses and doctors spin to stare. I hear one call out, “Code Blue in 403. He’s unhooked—” I don’t care. The only code that matters is Gianna, the only bed that matters is the one she’s lying in.

Fear coils so tight in my chest that each breath is a struggle. I push forward, leaning heavily on my brother, my free hand pressed to the bandage on my stomach to keep pressure on the wound. Each jolt of pain is a reminder that I’m alive, that I can still do something, that I can rewrite history and show Gianna once and for all that I’m not the man she thinks I am.

At last, we round a corner and see a sign for Maternity Ward. There’s a small desk at the entrance where an older nurse stands, confusion etched into her features at the sight of me staggering down the hallway in a half-open gown. “You can’t be—” she starts, but I bulldoze past her. “Sir, you’re not authorized?—!”

“Which room is 312?” I snap. She points down the hall. Dante tries to slow me, but I shove away from him, forcing myself to walk on my own. My vision narrows, and I stumble forward, ignoring the swirl of dizziness that hits me like a ton of bricks.

312. The number leaps out from the whiteboard outside a partially closed door. I slam my palm against it, pushing it open with too much force. The door smacks the wall, startling the occupant inside.

She’s in bed; hair limp around her shoulders, IVs taped to her arms, eyes red from what must be hours of crying. Gianna. Her gaze snaps toward me, and for an instant, she looks so fragile I’m afraid she might vanish if I breathe wrong. Then recognition and shock flood her expression.

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