19. Emma
NINETEEN
Emma
Two weeks later…
We sit at a small, warmly lit table in the corner of our favorite local restaurant, the familiar ambiance a soothing backdrop to our dinner. The hum of conversation and laughter around us feels worlds away from the tumultuous weeks I've endured. Amelia and Pamela, ever my pillars, share light-hearted stories, trying to lift the heaviness that's settled over me since my breakup.
Pamela leans forward, her eyes keen. “So, how are you really doing, Em? It's been weeks since the breakup and you just keep saying you’re fine.”
I stir my drink, watching the ice swirl. “I'm managing,” I admit.
“I saw on the news he finalized that big real estate deal.”
I manage a grunt in response. I’ve been studiously turning off the TV whenever his name is mentioned. Same reason I deleted his number. I don’t want to think about him.
Amelia reaches out, touching my arm. “Have you thought about looking at colleges yet?”
I nod, a half-hearted attempt to appear proactive. “I don’t want to take his money. I’m job hunting first. Want to make sure we have enough to pay the rent.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Do you ever wonder, maybe, if you made the right choice?”
The question catches me off guard, stirring the doubts I've buried deep. “Every day,” I confess softly. “But then I remember why I left. He wasn’t willing to compromise, wouldn’t share his life in the way I need.”
“Billionaire though,” Pamela said. “You could have been miserable but obscenely rich.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“Dumb. Noble but dumb.”
“Thanks.”
“But wasn't he good to you?” Amelia presses, her voice gentle but insistent. “Didn't he make you happy?”
“He did, and he was,” I reply, my voice thickening with emotion. “But his intensity, the darkness that comes with his kind of life, I'm not sure I was cut out for it.”
She looks at me, her expression thoughtful. “Just make sure it's what you really want, Em. Sometimes, we push away the very things we need the most.”
I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of their words. “I know. And maybe I am running away a bit. But it feels safer this way. After seeing everything he's capable of, how can I not be a little afraid?”
Am I simply taking the easy way out by avoiding the risks of a life with him? Or am I genuinely protecting myself from a world I'm not built for?
Pamela suddenly grabs my arm, her expression eager. “Oh, I forgot to mention! Did you hear about his plans for the land he just bought? He’s rebuilding Hannigan’s Park. Can you believe it? He’s planning to give it to the community when it’s done.”
The news catches me off-guard. That doesn’t sound like the ruthless businessman I know; it sounds more like the man I fell for—the one who could see beyond profits and power plays. Could he really be changing? Is there a part of him that yearns for normalcy and goodness like the rest of us? Does he remember what I told him about the park?
I doubt it. He’s probably doing it so he has somewhere to hide the bodies.
Amelia’s phone rings, slicing through the quiet evening like a warning siren. She answers, her face turning pale as she listens. “What? How? Yes, yes, I understand. We'll be there as soon as we can.” She hangs up, her hands trembling slightly. “That was the hospital,” she says, her voice shaky. “It’s Dad. He’s... he's in a coma.”
My heart sinks, a cold dread replacing the brief flicker of hope. “What happened to him?” I ask, though part of me already knows the answer.
“They didn’t say much, just that he was found unconscious and brought in. No one knows what happened yet,” Amelia explains, her eyes wide with fear.
A surge of anger washes over me, and I feel a deep, gnawing certainty in the pit of my stomach. It has to be him. Who else would want to hurt my father, if not Matteo, out of some warped sense of retribution or control?
“He did this,” I say, the words bitter in my mouth. “He must have decided that if we’re not together, he’s not bound by his oath not to hurt him. His plan all along was to kill him.”
Amelia grabs my hand, her grip tight. “We don’t know that for sure, Emma. Let’s find out more before we jump to conclusions.”
But the seed of doubt is already planted, watered by my fears and the protective instincts for my family. I was ready to believe he could change, but now, faced with this new crisis, all I can see is the danger he poses—not just to me, but to everyone I love.
We rush to the hospital, the stark fluorescent lights casting an eerie glow as we navigate through the corridors. The antiseptic smell fills the air, mingling with the low murmur of nurses and doctors as they pass by. Amelia clutches my hand tightly, her face pale with worry. I feel my anxiety building, my breathing turning into gasps. I fight to control it.
As we reach the emergency department, a nurse approaches us. “Are you the family of Mark Thompson?” she asks, her expression professional yet sympathetic.
“Yes, that's our dad,” Amelia responds quickly. “How is he? Can we see him?”
“He's in a critical condition,” the nurse explains as she leads us to a quiet corner to talk. “He was brought in unconscious and hasn't woken up yet. The doctors are doing everything they can.”
My stomach churns with anxiety and fear. “Who did this to him?” I ask, fearing the answer.
The nurse looks at me, her eyes softening. “We're not sure what happened. There were no obvious signs of foul play, but he does have a severe head injury. It’s possible he fell, or it could have been an assault. The police are still investigating.”
Amelia squeezes my hand, trying to offer some comfort as we process the information. “Can we please see him?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“Of course, follow me. She guides us to a room where Dad lies motionless on the hospital bed, hooked up to various machines. His face is swollen, his eyes black. His lip is cut badly. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, a stark reminder of the gravity of the situation.
Standing by his bedside, I feel a wave of emotions crash over me. Tears well up in my eyes as I reach out to gently hold his hand. “Dad,” I whisper, hoping for any sign of recognition, any small response.
Amelia stands on the other side of the bed, her face streaked with tears. “I was sure he was getting better,” she whispers to me. “He was trying so hard to stay sober. And now this.”
I nod, feeling a mixture of sadness and rising anger. “Someone might be trying to stop him getting better,” I say, thinking of Matteo and the darkness that seems to follow him everywhere. I think of that initial terror I felt when he invaded my bedroom. I think of him punching Vlad in the face at the gala.
Amelia looks at me, concern etching her features. “Emma, we don't know that for sure who did this. We can't just assume?—“
“I know him, Amelia. I know what he's capable of,” I interrupt, my voice hard with conviction.
A doctor enters the room, breaking our conversation. “Are you his daughters?” he asks. We nod, and he continues, “We've done all we can for now. It's a waiting game. He could wake up soon, or it might take a while. We're monitoring him closely.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Amelia says, her voice grateful yet strained. “Please keep us updated on any changes.”
“Of course,” the doctor replies before excusing himself.
As we sit by Dad's bedside, watching over him, I'm torn between my fear of Matteo’s involvement and the hope that somehow, despite everything, Dad will pull through. Amelia and I hold onto each other, finding strength in our shared worry, silently praying for a miracle in the dim light of the hospital room.
An hour later, Dad stirs, his eyelids fluttering open after what feels like an eternity. Amelia and I jump from our chairs, our previous weariness forgotten, drawn to his side instantly.
“Dad, can you hear me?” Amelia asks, her voice a mixture of hope and anxiety.
He blinks slowly, focusing with evident effort. His voice, when he speaks, is hoarse but clear, “Amelia, Emma... what happened?”
Relief floods through me, but it's quickly tempered by pressing questions about his condition. “You were found unconscious, Dad. You're in the hospital,” I explain, trying to keep my voice steady. “Matteo did this to you, didn’t he?”
He winces as he tries to sit up. “I... I need to tell you both something important,” he says, looking between us with a seriousness that tightens my chest.
“We’re listening, Dad. Just take it easy,” I urge him, taking his hand in mine.
He takes a deep breath and begins, his words slow but deliberate. “It's about Matteo.” He pauses, his gaze piercing.
“What about him? What did he do?”
He shakes his head. “I wanted to thank him. He put me in rehab, got me a psychiatrist. I was getting better. For you two.”
Amelia and I exchange a look of surprise. Rehab? Psychiatry? This is the last thing we expect to hear.
“I wanted to do something good, for once,” Dad continues, his voice gaining strength. “I wanted to thank him, to prove I could still be useful.”
“What did you do, Dad?” I ask, a knot of apprehension forming in my stomach.
“I went to see Petrovitch. I thought if I could gain his trust...” His voice trails off, filled with regret.
“You went to Petrovitch?” Amelia gasps, her eyes wide with shock. “Are you crazy?”
Dad nods. “I told him I was your father, that I hated Matteo for taking your innocence. Said I'd help take him down. It was foolish, but Petrovitch believed me. He trusted me enough to get talking. He confessed that he was behind the hit on Matteo’s parents. I managed to record him saying it.”
My heart races as he reveals more, each word adding layers to a story we hadn't even known was unfolding. “But something went wrong. He must have got suspicious. I was heading for Matteo’s and he must have had people following me. I heard this voice in Russian demanding I give him the decryption key for the recording I made. I turned around and told him to go fuck himself. That's all I remember before waking up here.”
“So, it wasn’t Matteo...” I murmur, the realization washing over me like a cold wave.
Dad clarifies, his eyes meeting mine. “He loves you, Emma. Enough to try to help a man who's failed so many times before. I just wanted to show my gratitude, give him closure. The file’s in the cloud. He can bring down Petrovitch any time he wants.”
“I need to see him,” I say, more to myself than to anyone else. “I have to go.”
Amelia squeezes my shoulder, a silent show of support. “Go to him, Emma.”
Pamela tosses me her keys. “Take my car.”
With a nod, I stand up, resolute. “See you all soon.”
“Good luck,” Amelia calls after me.