Page 115 of Wicked Sinner
"All dead or scattered. The threat is over, boss. Completely."
I nod, trying to process this information through the haze of painkillers. Matvey Slakov is dead—his revenge plot ended before it could destroy everything I've built. The immediate danger to Bridget and our child is over.
But that doesn't answer the question that's been haunting me since I lost consciousness.
"Cruz," I say carefully, "in the van, after I was shot. Did Bridget… did she say anything?"
His expression softens slightly. "She stayed with you the whole ride, boss. Didn’t want to let anyone else near you. She was..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "She was pretty upset."
That's not an answer to my question, but it's something. She cared enough to be upset, at least. Whether she actually told me she loved me or I imagined it in my delirium is still unclear.
Dr. Ackley comes in a few minutes later, checking my vitals and examining the bandages on my shoulder. "You're very lucky, Mr. Genovese. The bullet missed all the major arteries and organs. Went clean through the muscle and out the back. You'll be sore for a few weeks, but there shouldn't be any permanent damage."
"When can I go home?"
"I'd prefer to keep you here for another day or two?—"
"When can I go home?" I repeat, putting steel in my voice despite how weak I feel.
Dr. Ackley sighs. "This afternoon, if you promise to take it easy. No strenuous activity, no heavy lifting, and you need to keep the wound clean and dry."
"Done."
She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she’s dealt with enough mafia men to know better than to argue with me when I've made up my mind. After another hour of tests and bandage changes, I'm finally cleared to leave.
The ride back to the penthouse feels endless. Every bump in the road sends fresh pain through my shoulder, and I find myself gripping the door handle tighter than necessary. All I want is to see Bridget, to make sure she's really okay, to find out if what I remember from the van was real or just wishful thinking.
Cruz helps me to the elevator, though I wave him off before we reach the penthouse floor. I can walk on my own, and I don'twant Bridget to see me as weak or helpless. She's already been through enough.
The penthouse is quiet when I enter, afternoon sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I expect to find Bridget in bed, following doctor's orders, but the bedroom is empty.
"Bridget?" I call out, trying to keep the worry out of my voice.
"In here!" Her voice comes from the walk-in closet, and I follow the sound.
I find her standing in front of the full-length mirror, wearing a simple green dress that brings out her eyes. She's zipping up the back, but she stops when she sees me in the reflection.
"Caesar." She turns around, and I see relief and something else—something that looks like love—flash across her face. "You're home."
"I'm home." I lean against the doorframe, partly because I'm still weak and partly because I need the support to keep standing when she looks at me like that. "What are you doing? The doctor said you should be on bed rest."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "I had a telehealth call this morning, and we went over my symptoms, of which there haven’t been any. Dr. Ackley cleared me—no more bed rest, no more restrictions. The baby and I are both perfectly healthy."
Relief floods me at hearing that—and seeing her like this, clearly in perfectly fine shape despite everything that’s happened. "And you were getting dressed because...?"
"Because I was coming to see you." She takes a step toward me. "I couldn't stand being here alone anymore, not knowing how you were, not being able to see for myself that you were okay."
There's something in her voice, something vulnerable and open that I haven't heard before. It gives me the courage to ask the question that's been eating at me.
"In the car," I say quietly, "after I was shot. Do you remember what you said to me?"
Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't look away. "I remember."
"Did you mean it?" I feel my heart thud against my ribs. I’m afraid of the answer, but I need to know.
For a moment, she doesn't answer. She just looks at me, and I can see her working up the courage to say whatever she needs to say.
"I meant every word," she finally whispers.
