Chapter 16
BANE
Pulsing energy jangles within me as I storm through the hospital like a wraith.
Where the fuck is she.
You'd think, given my grim expression and the way I shove people out of my way like an ice-barge demolishing a frozen stream, that I was feeling how most people do when they come to a hospital looking for a loved one.
Anxious. Terrified. Strangled by worry about someone lying broken or bleeding behind one of these doors.
But the heated blood under my skin right now can more accurately be ascribed to anger.
Fury, even.
I round a corner, and I’m instantly mobbed by big Italian guys in dark suits with obvious firearms under their jackets, blocking me like a wall.
“Calm the fuck down!” a familiar gruff voice barks from behind the Great Wall of Pasta. “It’s Antonov, ya dumb fucks.”
The jowly fucker I’ve just squared right up with, our foreheads almost touching, scowls before he blinks in recognition.
“Let him through, Joey!”
“Move, Joey,” I hiss quietly. His dim-witted eyes narrow, but he and the other Marchetti goons step aside. I shove past them and stop in front of Cesare.
Instantly he’s all smiles, grinning widely as he pats me on the shoulder.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he laughs, “and don’t you fuckin’ worry. We’re all good. Our deal is still fine.”
My brows furrow.
“The second I heard you were on the way over,” Cesare grins at me, patting a heavy hand on my chest like we’re old buddies, “I figured you and your father were anxious to make sure everything was still in order. Trust me, the deal is still okay.”
I stare at him.
The deal.
Jesus Christ.
This fucker is not concerned right now about the fact that his daughter just got hit by a fucking bus—well, bumped by a bus that stopped just in time, but still.
He's concerned about our goddamn deal.
Father of the fucking year.
“How is she,” I growl under my breath.
“Like I said,” he grins. “All good.”
“Aside from being hit by a bus?” I mutter.
He chuckles. “Well, yeah, there's that. But she’s fine.”
I crack my neck to either side, still glowering at him.
“Is she watched?”
Cesare frowns. “Huh?”
“My fiancée,” I growl. “Do you have her shadowed by your men when she’s out.”
His heavy brows shoot up. “She’s family! My guys are on top of these things! You think I don’t look after my own daughter?”
“I think she was just pushed in front of a goddamn bus, and EMT’s got through midtown rush hour traffic and brought her to hospital before any of your guys even fucking knew about it.”
Silence descends over the hallway. Cesare looks at me like I’ve got two heads.
Shitty father or not, this is still Don Marchetti, a major player in the city who has the support of some of the biggest families in the Italian Commission.
He's not exactly used to being mouthed off to.
I suppose I could backtrack or make him believe my tone is out of concern for his daughter. Instead, I just bulldoze right ahead. Cesare’s a fucking bully who was given a crown, and there’s only one way to deal with thugs like him.
“I’ll be taking her to my place,” I say evenly. “She’ll live with me from now on.”
Cesare bristles. But not as much as he fucking should.
“You haven’t married her yet, Antonov,” he grunts. I don’t reply, and his brow furrows deeper. “Look, the optics—”
“Fuck the optics,” I say coldly. “Someone pushed her in front of a city bus. Obviously your men can’t handle her security.”
I can feel the lethal stares of his men burning into my back. Cesare cocks a brow at me, his teeth grinding.
“This isn’t a negotiation, by the way,” I add, leaning subtly closer to him.
“Our marriage is the cement in the deal between our families. And your men,” I say, turning to smile coldly at the scowling, pissed-off guards behind me, “don’t seem to be up to the task of keeping one of the parties safe. I am.”
Cesare glares at me. My expression is icy as I stare right back.
“Fine,” he finally grunts. “She’s with you now. Just…keep it on the down—”
“Where is she.”
He scowls with all the indignation of a man whose is not used to being interrupted. But he nods his chin past me to the hospital room door across the hall. “Inside, with her sister.”
Both women gasp when I stride inside the room. Chiara looks surprised, but the expression on my bride-to-be’s face is more…
I frown.
She legit looks afraid of me.
“Chiara,” I growl under my breath, nodding to her.
We have that weird kind of relationship where we don’t really know each other that well, despite having been around each other at least a few dozen times.
Of course, back then, she was a kid when I’d come over to the Marchetti house to see Lark.
And I was just the housekeeper's granddaughter’s emo freak boyfriend.
She nods back. “Bane.”
“I need to have a word with my fiancée,” I add.
I know they’re not close, and never really have been. But, bottom line, Chiara is in here with her. Cesare is not.
You can’t pick your family. But showing up counts for a lot.
Chiara glances at her sister. Her face pales, and I don’t miss the subtle shake of her head as if she’s silently screaming “no”.
Chiara frowns as she glances at me again. “Maybe you could come back—”
“It wasn’t a request, Chiara,” I growl.
Her throat bobs, then she clears her throat. “I’ll, uh…I’ll be outside with Dad.”
She shoots me a furtive glance as she quickly walks past me and out the door.
I stride over to the bed. “Can you walk?”
“I—yes. The bus only bumped me, thank—”
“Good. Let’s go.”
She stares at me. “What?”
“You’re coming home with me.”
Her face darkens. “The hell I am.”
She gasps sharply as I yank the bedsheets back.
“You’re either walking out of here with me, or else I’m throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you.” My eyes stab into hers. “Your choice, little bird. And we both know I’m not bluffing.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she breathes, glaring death at me, her voice tinged with something I can’t place.
“Suit yourself—”
“Okay! Okay!” She stops me just as I reach for her.
Five minutes later, once she’s dressed, I’m escorting her past Cesare and his men and bringing her outside to my car.
“Bane.”
Sergey, one of my top guys, is waiting by the car when we get there. I help my completely unappreciative fiancée into the passenger seat and then close the door before I beckon Sergey around to the back of the car.
“What’d you find?”
He holds up a folder. “Police report, taken at the scene while the EMTs were checking her out.”
“And?”
His brows furrows. “The bus driver claims he didn’t see who pushed Dove. None of the interviewed witnesses did, either.”
The niggling little spark of suspicion in my head blossoms into a flame.
She’s silent the whole drive back to my place, turned away from me and staring numbly out the window at the neon lights of the city whizzing past. It only dumps even more fuel on that fire crackling and snarling inside me.
When we get back to my building, I’m a wall of cold, silent fury as I all but drag her out of the car and inside. I’m aware of her glancing at me, a fifty-fifty mix of nervous and pissed off. I don’t say a goddamn word the whole elevator ride up, and open the front door in silence.
“What are you—hey! Get the fuck off me!”
I ignore her curses and attempts to hit me as I drag her into and through the penthouse. When she plants her feet, I turn and grab her around the waist, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her to the master bathroom.
I kick on the hot water tap in the big gothic clawfoot tub, ignoring the way she kicks and writhes as she tries to squirm free. She gasps sharply when I abruptly swing her off my shoulder, pin her to the wall, and wrap a strong hand around her throat.
She struggles, hissing and swearing at me furiously. But again, I ignore the slaps and punches as I grab a fistful of her yoga pants and start to yank them down off her hips.
“Excuse me?!” she blurts, trying to kick me and jerk out of my grip.
Not happening.
I yank again, peeling them over her ass and starting to rip them down her thighs.
“Get your fucking hands off me!!”
“I would, but I don't trust you to do this yourself,” I growl. “Now stay the fuck still so I can—”
“Let me go!!”
She squeals and thrashes and writhes, kicking and lashing out as I deftly pull the yoga pants down to her knees and then try to shove her t-shirt up her torso.
“Stop—!”
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, little bird,” I sigh in a bored tone.
Her dark eyes burn into mine. I pause just long enough to draw in a breath, then slowly exhale as I glare back at her. “Would you like to do it yourself?”
“I’d like to stab you in the eye, actua—Bane!”
She claws and hits at me as I shove her t-shirt up over her breasts and grab the front of the sports bra underneath.
“Okay!!” she finally yells. “Okay! Jesus! I’ll do it!”
I hold her firmly for another second, eying her. Behind me, the tub fills with hot water, the steam curling around us as it fills the tiled bathroom.
“What are you even doing?!” she asks.
“Giving you a bath,” I grunt. “You were hit by a fucking bus and lying in the middle of East 52nd Street, then in a hospital bed.”
“Spoiler: I’m capable of bathing myself just fine,” she snaps, trying to wrestle out of my grip while simultaneously attempting to shove her shirt back down.
“I’m not sure I believe you,” I hiss back.
Her brows knit deeply. “What?”
“I haven’t had time to safety-proof the bathroom,” I growl. “So no, you will not be bathing alone yet. Not take off your fucking clothes or I will. I’ll count to three. One. Two—”
“Fuck you.”
I allow her to wriggle free but stay right where I am, watching her closely as she half turns. She pulls her clothes off and stays turned away from me, her arms crossed over her nakedness, her cheeks heating red.
“There, happy?” she mumbles. “Now can you please let me bathe my—”
“No. After your little stunt tonight, I don’t trust you alone in here until I’ve made sure there’s nothing you can use to harm yourself.”