Page 47 of Daddy's Little Spy

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No, no, no, no.

Fighting against the iron bands of Emilio’s arms wrapped around her, Diana watched in horror as Franks pinned Benito to the ground. An ear-splitting crack splintered the air, and her husband’s body went limp.

“Daddy!” The scream was torn from her, as if someone had reached a hand down her throat and yanked it out of her, scraping her insides raw in the process.

“Stop, Diana! Stop!” Emilio tightened his hold on her, but she only fought harder.

“Let me go! Let me go! Benny!” Her voice broke on his name and she had just enough awareness left to wonder if her mind wasn’t far behind.

Her husband. Her lover.

Her Daddy.

Gone.

Whether she finally broke free, or Emilio let her go, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was she was running, then falling, then crawling to her husband’s body.

Tears blurred her vision as she knelt beside his head and ran a trembling hand over his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please don’t die. I can’t live without you.”

She was vaguely aware of a crowd gathering, hushed, horrified voices whispering around her. A sharp prick at the back of her neck alerted her too late that something was wrong, moments before the darkness overtook her.

* * *

She woke alone, in a room she didn’t recognize. Sitting up, she moaned quietly at the pounding in her head.

What the hell had happened?

Grief, complete and overwhelming, washed over her even before her mind pieced together the fractured memories.

Benny. Franks. A fight.

Gunfire.

A sob tangled in her chest, pain unlike anything she’d ever known pressing in on her until she thought she might die from it.

“Oh, bambolina. Please don’t cry.”

Great. Now she’d gone crazy. She could swear she felt his arms pulling her in, smelled his cologne. But it couldn’t be. Franks had shot him, and she’d watched him die.

“Not real, not real, not real,” she whispered to herself, even as the hair on his chest tickled her nose when she pressed her face against his warm skin.

“I promise you, I am very real, little one.”

“Can’t be. I saw — you were —” With a desperate cry, she wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed.

At his hiss of pain, she jerked away. “You died,” she whispered, still not quite ready to believe what her eyes were telling her. Still not willing to trust that her mind hadn’t simply conjured him in her grief.

A smile played at his lips, but it didn’t reach his worried eyes. “In a manner of speaking, yes. But I’m very much alive, bambolina.”

“How? I saw you. Franks shot you.”

“Why don’t we get you dressed and we can talk about it over breakfast?”

Grief began to give way to a shaky, tentative relief. “You’re not dead? And I’m not crazy?”

“No, baby. No. We’re both alive and well.”

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