Page 200 of The Billionaire's Secret
"The fuck would they want that for?" I rub the back of my neck.
He raises his shoulders, "My guess is that the USB is marked in some form that can help them trace it back to its owner. They want it to help track down the snitch who sent it to you." He cracks his neck. "I’m only the messenger in this. Suffice to say, it's my ticket to get back in with them."
I scowl.
Antonio continues, "As for Victoria..."
I growl.
He raises his hands, "I let her go—doesn't mean the Mafia won’t change their mind and come after her."
"You focus on your mission," I lean forward on the balls of my feet, "I'll take care of what's mine."
Victoria tugs on my sleeve.
I turn to her. Her face is pale.
"You okay?"
She presses a hand to her belly; sweat beads her upper lip,
"Victoria!" My heart begins to thud, "What's wrong?"
"I…I’m not sure." She pitches forward.
51
Saint
"It's my fault." I drag my fingers through my hair, "I didn't get to her in time, and now she's in there struggling for her life."
I dig the heels of my boots into the carpet, survey the bland surroundings of the waiting room in the hospital—the same hospital where Weston had been admitted earlier.
"Now, let's not jump to conclusions," Sinclair squeezes my shoulder. "Let's wait for the doc's verdict.” He continues, “By the way, in case you were wondering, I cleared things up with Antonio—"
“I wasn’t.”
“Nevertheless, I removed the bug on the USB and sent him on his way.”
I ignore him, "What's taking them so long in there?"
"Uh, the fact that you insisted Weston be present as they examine her?"
"They should be used to it by now," I mutter. "Besides, it's Weston's hospital, isn't it? And he was already with us. They can damn well do as he says...and me, for that matter.”
"Not that I don’t understand the sentiment," Sinclair sprawls in his seat, his suit none the worse for wear. "But...even I know better than to get in the way of doctors and such fine professionals who are specialists in their field."
"Easy for you to say." I squeeze my fingers into my sides, "If that had been Summer in there..."
His jaw flexes. "Fine," he purses is lips, "what's your point?"
"My point is..." I draw a blank. Run my finger around the sleeve of my shirt. "It's...shit..." I squeeze the bridge of my nose. "I don’t know, what it is."What's wrong with me?My wife had collapsed, and this time I hadn't acted quickly enough. I had watched, rooted to the spot, as she had slumped forward, collapsed to the floor. I'd rushed to her, pulled her into my arms, watched as her body had bucked in my arms. Her eyes had rolled back in her head, and all color had leached from her face.
My hands and feet had gone numb, I could barely move, and couldn't string two thoughts together. Me, the man who always has an answer to every question. I couldn't do anything but hold her in my arms... And pray.
Fuck!I've never been religious, never been to a church in my life. But if there is a power larger than all of us, then I had appealed to it for help. I had sworn that if she was okay, I'd contribute a good chunk of my assets to FOK media—that's short forFull of Kindness, nope I kid you not—the non-profit that the Seven of us had founded. I'll use the money to do good... In my own way.
I'd held her hand all the way to the hospital in the ambulance. She'd regained consciousness en route and had cried. She'd been out of her head with panic that she was losing the baby—our baby, fuck! The little being whose presence was only beginning to take shape in my life... Had it been snatched away before it had materialized?
