Page 36 of Forbidden War (Forbidden 2)
Staring at all the brake lights in front of us and trying not to scream with anxiety and frustration, I remind myself that it could have been anyone who got shot. They didn’t explicitly say it was anyone inside the limo. And “injuries” could mean anything. A twisted ankle from running away, or a cut from broken glass. They didn’t use the phrase “gunshot wounds,” right?
God. All the things I should have done differently. Why did I have to be so stubborn and hold out on him? I was so busy trying to protect my heart and my pride that I gave up valuable time with the only man I’ll ever love.
And now he might be dead.
Frankie has me keep trying Dante’s number, then Marco’s, and even Armani’s, but none of the Bellanti brothers pick up.
“Why isn’t anyone answering?” I fret. Frankie just shakes her head.
“Keep trying,” is all she says.
I have no words of comfort for her. In fact, I have no words at all. Panic and despair have muted me completely.
The moment we squeal up to the curb outside the emergency room doors, Frankie throws the SUV into park, opens her door, and starts to jump out.
“Frankie! Oh my God!”
I’m sure she’s going to fall, but she manages to keep her balance and waddle-runs toward the glass doors. Punching the button for the emergency flashers, I leave the car running and bolt out after her.
“Bellanti!” she’s yelling as she rushes toward the check-in desk. “Please, I’m Dante Bellanti’s wife. Is he…where is he?”
A nurse hurries over to help Frankie into a chair. “Ma’am, are you in labor?”
Breathless, she shakes her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “No. It’s my husband. Please, Dante is my husband.”
“There was a shooting earlier, and we saw the vehicle our husbands were in on the news,” I clarify, trying to sound calm.
The nurse looks at me, then her, his expression going sympathetic. “Please, if you can just wait here. I’ll see what I can find out.”
I sink into the chair next to Frankie and grip her hand tightly. That’s when I realize I’m still in a pair of pajama shorts and a tank top with nothing on my feet, while Frankie’s wearing nothing more than a mid-thigh maternity T-shirt and slippers. What a pair we must make.
It feels like an eternity passes while we wait for someone to bring us news, both of us hoping against hope that neither of us is a widow now.
“Frankie!”
We both spin to the sound of Dante’s deep voice. Frankie yells his name and covers her face in relief. He goes to her, falling to his knees and wrapping his arms around her. My heart sinks. Oh God. Oh no. Dante whispers something that makes Frankie cry harder into his chest, and suddenly I know. I just know.
Marco is gone.
“Dante—” I beg him with just one word.
He looks up but doesn’t say anything, his eyes straying over my shoulder. I look because I can’t not look, expecting to see a grim-faced doctor with a clipboard to deliver the worst news I could possibly imagine. But instead, it’s—
“MARCO!”
He’s there. Walking toward me with a bandage around his head, the front of his shirt blood spattered, eyes hollow. Armani is next to him.
I leap to my feet. “Marco.”
In a daze, I cross the waiting room toward him and pull him into my arms, relief washing over me.
“Thank God, thank God,” I murmur into his shoulder, over and over again, clinging to him with every ounce of strength I have. “I thought I lost you.”
His palms press flat against my back, warm and strong and reassuring.
“Never.” He kisses the top of my head, my cheeks, my lips, and then says, “Let’s go home.”
