Page 15 of Tortured Hearts
Panic tears through me as I watch them drag Gianni away. They can’t lock him up. They might as well shine a spotlight over him and light a runway to his cell. “Gianni…” I call out, my voice catching.
He grounds his feet in the doorway and glances over his shoulder. “It’s just a jar, butterfly. Sooner or later, they all break.”
Then he’s gone.
“Are you proud of yourself?” I hiss as my father follows them out. “Will your ‘silent partner’ give you a sticker for a job well done?”
He stills in the doorway. “You’ll never understand what all I’ve done for you.”
I let out an acidic laugh. “Funny. Gianni said the same thing. Given your shared love of illegal enterprises, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
He turns toward me, his fingers curling around the doorframe. “Lower your voice.”
“No, I don’t think I will. I’m done with the whole ‘beingseen and not heard’ thing,” I say, anger cutting through my rolling anxiety. “In fact, I’m about to be incredibly vocal about a lot of unpleasant shit if you don’t let him go.”
“So this is what he’s turned you into … a heartless blackmailer?”
“No, that was you. He just polished the edges.”
I’m not sure what either of us thinks slinging insults will accomplish, but I’m too far gone to analyze it. All I know is that I want to inflict as much pain as I’m in.
He tightens his grip on the doorframe, my strings pulling taut. “You do what you have to, Becca,” he challenges. “Swing that blade but know my throat won’t be the only one you cut.”
I clench my fists, hating that he's right. I hate that the only way to save Gianni is to destroy him. I hate that the only ace I hold is a death card.Christ. It really is the ultimate fuck you.“I’ll never forgive you for this.”
He turns his back to me, his rigid posture melting. “I don’t expect you to. But as long as you’re safe, I can live with it.” He closes the door, and once again, I’m alone.
I stare at the blank walls, shaking with rage. If my father thinks he’s going to control my life, he’s mistaken. Gritting my teeth, I take hold of the needle in my arm and pull.
“Rebecca Brennan?”
I glance up at the doorway where an older man wearing a white coat and a permanently pinched face stands, clipboard in hand. “Yes?”
I expect a follow-up. Instead, he invites himself inside and nods to the IV tube clenched in my hand. “I’m pretty sure that works better when it’s in your vein.”
I don’t answer becauseI’mpretty sure he won’t like my explanation.
“I’m Dr. Powell,” he carries on. “I apologize for my late arrival, but maneuvering around the added securityhas been challenging.”
I pull the oxygen tube over my head and roll my eyes. “Chief Reese seems to think my safety is a national concern.”
“Well, your health is mine,” he counters, “which other than a bit of smoke inhalation and a minor concussion, is doing remarkably well.” He gives me a sharp look that bores into me. “You were lucky, Miss Brennan. Another thirty seconds, and there would’ve been a different outcome. That being said, I see no reason not to discharge you first thing in the morning.”
That’s too late. By then, there’s no telling what “truth” my father will have bent to fit his narrative. Gianni walked through literal fire for me. The least I can do is walk out of this hospital for him.
Tossing the tube on the bed, I swing my legs off the side, my gaze landing on a side table where my glasses lay slightly bent, sporting a not-so-functional crack down the side of one lens.Screw it.Quickly slipping them on, I reach for the hospital phone. “That won’t work.”
He scurries around the corner, his hand landing on the receiver. “You nearly lost your life tonight, Miss Brennan. I’m sure risking a setback is something you want to avoid.”
“That’s my choice.”
He puffs out his chest, those credentials on his badge inflating his confidence. “I can’t let you leave.”
I’m done playing by everyone else’s rules. Taking my hand off the phone, I rise to my feet. “My father is the chief of police, a man with access to information most people wouldn’t want to become public. We all have closed doors in our pasts, Dr. Powell. If yours opened, how many skeletons would fall out?”
He visibly deflates. It’s as if I took a scalpel and popped a hole in his sanctimonious balloon. “I’ll get your discharge papers ready.”
I nod. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, please see yourself out. I have a phone call to make.”
