Page 138 of Wounded King
My jaw tightens, and I involuntarily glance over at Enzo. The doctor's instructions include him. But if I want him to play ball on this, I'll have to give him something else. I'll figure something out. Right now, I just want to go see Violet. "Can she hear me?"
"She's in and out. But she's responsive. You can sit with her." Doctor Waspo says.
He softens just enough to say, "She's strong. But even strong women break if pushed too hard. Let her rest, Mr. Orsi."
I'm about to break more of his bones. No one has the right to speak this familiarly about Violet, certainly not some rotten little doctor who nearly had me killed. I don't trust the bastard as far as I could throw him.
Luciano left to take care of my orders, leaving Alejandro. I nod at him, and he comes over. "I want Doc Brown here. Just to look over this asshole's shoulder to ensure he doesn't try anything."
"Sure thing, boss," Alejandro nods, pulling out his phone.
An idea occurs to me. "Enzo, if I let you look in on her and then see your other kids, will you promise to hold off on any retribution concerning your wife?"
Enzo's jaw locks in place; he doesn't look happy, which, for a lesser man than me, would be a terrifying sight to see. But he nods.
"Arrange a meeting for him and Violet's brother and sister," I tell Alejandro. "No weapons, no blood."
"Yes, boss," Alejandro nods again, setting his shoulders. He doesn't look at Enzo, but he knows who the man is and what he is capable of. He'd better keep his guard up. I have no idea how Violet will handle it if something happens to her family under my watch.
Violet.
She's all I can think of right now. I jerk my chin at Enzo to tell him to follow me and pull the sliding door to the side, then the curtain. I stop Enzo with a hand to his arm, "That's far enough."
The urge to go to Violet, who's looking so lost and fragile in that hospital bed, nearly kills me. I'm ready to end Enzo, just so I can go to her side. But something in the older man's expression stops me once again. His dark eyes glimmer with moisture.
"Violetta," he says with so much grief in his voice that I don't doubt for a second that he loves her.
Bianca really hurt this man when she fled and took his children from him. I don't know the whole story yet, but I have a feeling I'm about to find out more about the Carbone family than I'm comfortable with.
"Alejandro will take you to see Elaine and Sebastian," I promise Enzo. "I will keep you updated on Violet's progress."
His eyes assess me from head to toe, "I'm not happy about her being involved in a goddamn faida—feud—like this," he's talking about our fight against Edoardo. "You're making a move against the crown, boy. Don't let her be the one buried with it."
I don't like the way he calls me boy, but I'm willing to let it slide for now. I don't think I'd be too happy with me, either, if I stood in his shoes. But he'd better watch himself in the future. I'll not let it slide again.
"She will be guarded with my life," I promise.
His glare doesn't change. "I'm sure that's what you told her before she was shot."
That barb hurts. My jaw clenches, and so do my fists. With that, Enzo leaves with Alejandro, and I'm finally alone with Violet. Slowly, I approach the bed she's lying in. She looks so lost and fragile; every step towards her is torture. IVs are attached to her arm, and cords run out in all directions from under her sheet, feeding the silently beeping monitor by her side. I've seen enough of them to understand what each number means. Her blood pressure and heart rate are a little elevated, but not too much.
Her head and beautiful hair are covered by white gauze, wrapped around her skull like a turban. Her left eye—the side where she was shot—is swollen shut, the skin around it a cruel mosaic of black and blue. The sight of her like this tears something open inside me.
Anger surges through me, hot and vicious. My fists clench tight enough to shake, aching for an outlet—for revenge, for blood, forsomeoneto pay for this. But there's no one to kill in this room, no trigger to pull, no throat to crush.
So I do the only thing I can.
I force my hands open and brush my knuckles, trembling, along the uninjured side of her face. Her skin is warm.Alive.That single point of contact nearly undoes me.
A deep, aching yearning swells in my chest, and it's not just want—it'sneed. A need that spreads like wildfire, devouring every part of me. I need to hear her voice. I need her to open her eyes and look at me—really look at me—and say something sarcastic or soft orherself.I need to hear her whisper those words again, the ones she said so many times while waiting for me to grow a spine.
"I love you," I whisper, and the second the words leave me, I hate how quiet they sound. Cowardly. Too small for what they mean. So I say them again—louder this time—but my voice breaks, hoarse and ragged with emotion, making them barely audible anyway.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, take her hand in mine, and just stare at her.
Her eyelids don't open, but I see the slightest flutter of her lashes, the subtle movement of her eyes beneath them—she's dreaming.
Is she dreaming of me?
