Salvatore

28. Ivy

28

IVY

“ Adena .” Panic steals my breath. “What are you?—”

Pain stabs my hip in sharp doses. Once . Twice .

I cry out, fighting to escape, scrambling for leverage.

“Keep your hands off my son,” she snarls.

I blindly shove at her through the bars, scratching, grabbing, my cell clattering to the floor.

More sharp bites of agony lance my waist. My abdomen.

I scream, leaning my belly away, my forehead still plastered to the metal bars. I find her face in the darkness, my fingers scrambling over her cheeks, my thumbs gouging her eyes.

She shrieks, her hold loosening as heat stabs my bicep. My wrist.

I wrench my neck backward, and slam a foot against the bars, the strength in my legs finally allowing me to break free.

I stumble away in retreat.

Then there’s nothing.

No sight. No sound. No pain. Only the callous rasp of my breaths as I stand on cold concrete, panting into the darkness, adrenaline coursing through me like a flash flood.

What the hell just happened?

I blink at the void that surrounds me. Baffled. Blindsided.

“Stay away from Salvatore,” Adena sneers. “Keep your hands off my son.”

It’s as if someone else speaks to me from the other side of those bars. Someone I don’t recognize.

“You stupid fucking whore.” Her voice raises. “You think I don’t know who you are? That I haven’t known this whole time? Stronza . You’re just like my daughter.”

My breath catches.

She’d been so kind to me. So understanding.

I backtrack toward escape, the agony of my tattered pride far more unforgiving than what she’s inflicted upon me.

I stumble along the short passage. Shove the secret door closed with a heavy thud. I’m a heaving, mindless mess as I quickly haul the shelf back into place, then run for the stairs, my hand slipping when I grip the railing from the nervous sweat slicking my palm.

I reach the upstairs door and yank it open, then stop dead in the hall.

What do I do now?

I need to leave, but I can’t think straight to figure out how. I’m too hyped on adrenaline and maxed out on emotion. My entire body is freaking out, head to toe perspiration making my pajamas cling to my abdomen, the material sticking to my skin.

I’m literally dripping in sweat.

I glance down to the marble floor, the quiet drip , drip , drip so fucking loud through my mania. But it’s not translucent liquid that hits the tile. I frown at the droplets surrounding my feet, the faint moonlight casting the splatter in hues as dark as obsidian.

Not sweat. Blood.

Shit .

It’s everywhere. Soaked into my clothes. Trailing down my left leg and arm.

The adrenaline has put a kill switch on the pain, but not the bleeding.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Salvatore.” His name rasps from my drying mouth as I stumble away from the basement door. “Help.”

I can barely hear my own voice. Can’t distinguish it through the thunderous pulse in my ears.

Breathing becomes harder. Faster.

I slip my way down the hall, the soles of my feet losing traction with the mass of bodily lubricant coating them. “ Salvatore. ”

I can’t die like this. Can’t have fled my upbringing to be killed by someone who’d been safely restrained behind bars.

I reach his room, my grip hard to maintain on the door handle from the moisture slickening my palm as I open it. “Sal?—”

“Ivy?” His voice is gruff beneath the ruffle of sheets, the gentle glow from the bedside clock highlighting the darkness of his silhouette as he sits up in bed. “What’s wrong?”

The panic increases. The ability to breathe becomes impossible.

What if he wants me dead, too? What if Adena told him I’d been in the basement and it was his idea to kill me?

“Tell me,” he demands, his shadowed form flinging back the covers to move to his feet.

“I—” I retreat as blood trickles down my thigh. “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Don’t hurt you?” Annoyance enters his voice with his approach.

“I…” I shouldn’t have been down there. Shouldn’t have snooped in a criminal’s home and betrayed the trust of my savior. “I need you to let me leave.”

I take another retreating step, but he grabs my bicep, the light squeeze of his fingers igniting agony through one of my wounds.

I cry out, my knees weakening. “Stop. Please .”

“What the fuck, Ivy?” He flicks on the bedroom light, the illumination slaughtering my retinas.

I shield my eyes, disorientation making me dizzy.

“What the—” His hand falls from my arm. “What the hell happened?”

“Please just let me go. Give me the keys to your car, and you’ll never see me again.”

A hard line bites between his brows, his gaze feral as it rakes over me. “Tell me this blood isn’t yours.” He grabs my wrist, his focus narrowing on a perfectly circular hole that seeps claret from my forearm. “Ivy.” His gaze meets mine with unruly force. “Who did this?”

I shake my head, my lips sealed.

He steps closer, his palm sliding up my arm to stop before another seeping puncture wound. “Jesus Christ . ” He snatches at the hem of my clinging pajama top, raising it, pausing at whatever he finds. “ Fuck .” He clasps a punishing hand over my abdomen, making me double over with a squeal.

“How many are there?” His eyes are more demanding than the harshness in his voice.

I swallow, trying to recount the attack. The punctures. The pain.

I can’t remember. It’s all a blur. Everything is. Even the man who stands before me in nothing but silken navy boxers, the peaks and troughs of all those Hulk-arian sculpted muscles becoming one big smoosh of dreamy goodness.

He truly is a work of art—his body as beautiful and timeless as a Monet. Too bad his mental equilibrium matches that of a Picasso.

I smile to myself, wishing I had the energy to voice the quip, but my head sways, the adrenaline, poof, gone. Now all that’s left is dizzying lethargy through chaotic heartbeats.

I reach for him, stabilizing myself with a feeble grip on his extraordinarily smooth shoulder.

“Hey.” He gets in my face, his free hand palming my cheek, lightly patting. “Don’t fucking pass out on me.”

I blink back to life. “I-I won’t. I’m good.”

He grabs my hands and guides one to my abdomen, the other to my waist. “You need to add pressure to stem the bleeding.”

Numbly I glance down, understanding that the slowly splurging carnage from beneath my palms is a bad thing but not feeling the stress that should probably accompany the observation.

He swoops in, sweeping me off my feet, all surly and strong as he treks fast steps back into the bedroom to awkwardly juggle me while he snatches a car fob and his cell from the bedside table. “Tell me what happened.” Then he stalks for the hall.

Did he really not know of his mother’s plan to turn me into a human pincushion?

He’s meant to be a momma’s boy.

“Ivy?” He reaches the front door and wrenches at the handle. “You can’t fall asleep.”

I open my eyes, not realizing I’d closed them. “I won’t.” I shiver as he steps outside, the external security lights illuminating our path to the black SUV while his bare feet crunch along the loose pebbled drive. “Where are we going?”

“The hospital.”

“ No .” I attempt to straighten, the sharp movement punished with a stab of white-hot pain through my belly. I loosen the pressure of my palms, needing a reprieve. “Gabriel will find me.”

“Not if you don’t give them your name.”

Another set of rushed footsteps approach from behind us. “Everything okay, boss?”

Salvatore glances over his shoulder, his stride steady. “Get the car door for me.”

The guard runs in front of us, dressed in all black, and yanks the passenger door open. “What happened?”

“I’m yet to find out.” Salvatore settles me gently into the seat, the stab wounds in my left hip-ish and ass area protesting my weight. “Don’t let anyone in the house.” He dumps his cell and car fob into the center console and straps me in. “Not even Catarina. Tell her she can have the day off. I’ll text you with more instructions when I can.”

Salvatore retreats. My door slams. Then the half-naked, brilliantly muscled man jogs around the front of the vehicle and climbs behind the wheel.

“I really shouldn’t go to the hospital,” I repeat as he guns the engine. “It’s too risky.”

“I’m not going to watch you bleed out.”

“Why not? I’m meant to disappear.”

His jaw ticks as he accelerates toward the gates. “Not like this, mi bella reina .”

That endearment shouldn’t affect me at a time like this. My focus needs to be on the blood pooling beneath my ass and the puncture wounds that litter my body like freckles. Instead my heart catches. My pulse falters.

I keep my focus on him as he speeds through the subdued midnight streets of Virginia Beach, the moonlight dancing over his face, the intense focus in his expression unwavering.

If he truly doesn’t know, he’s going to find out eventually. The grim trail of my bodily fluids won’t make it difficult to piece together. Then what will he think of me? What will he be forced to do to ensure my silence if I don’t flee?

“I appreciate all you’ve done.” The words whisper from my mouth, unbidden.

He shoots me a hard look before returning his attention to the road. “Quit talking like you’re dying.”

“I’m not. I just… I wanted you to know I’m not the complete all-star ungrateful bitch I make out to be.”

“Not once have I thought you were a bitch, Ivy.”

“Then I’m losing my touch because that’s the vibe I’ve been aiming for.”

He doesn’t respond despite me wanting him to. He’s all gruff and brooding, hyper-focused and guarded.

“I don’t like that I found it difficult accepting your help,” I admit, my lightheadedness darkening my vision at the edges. “With all my flawless, show-stopping bravado and unparalleled independence, it’s hard to be vulnerable.”

I anticipate a huffed laugh. A humorous disregard to the heavy feels.

All he gives me is more silence.

The animalistic intensity continues, his gaze pinpointed on the street ahead for agonizing seconds until he finally mutters, “I know.”

I wince, loathing the implication that he sees through my act… adoring it too.

“Tell me about the puncture wounds.” He speeds onto an exit ramp, overtaking vehicles as if they’re standing still. “Hospital staff are going to ask questions.”

Questions I don’t have to answer. Not honestly anyway.

“I don’t know.” I wipe the dripping blood from my wrist against the thigh of my pajamas. “I think I fell.”

His nostrils flare. “You think you fell? Onto what? A fucking cactus?”

“The details are foggy.”

“My fucking ass they are.”

I drag my attention to the blur of passing buildings and cars.

Even if I did trust him not to side with his own mother, starting that conversation would mean addressing another trauma box. A relatively new one. Freshly packed. And I’m in no state of mind to do it.

“Tell me, Ivy.” he snarls.

“Maybe later. I’m tired.” I raise my palm from my abdomen to check my wounds, the tiny hole still purging dark blood.

“Don’t do that.” He clasps a hand over mine, smacking my palm back to my stomach. “You need to hold pressure.”

I cry out at the insurgence of pain, the air stolen from my lungs.

“ Fuck .” He watches me struggle, the stern pinched apology in his features making me work harder to pull myself together.

“Eyes on the road, mobster,” I grit out as he holds my gaze, the threat of a high-speed crash hurtling closer by the second as his harsh stare begs forgiveness. “I said, eyes on the road, ninito .”

He huffs a frustrated breath and finally drags his hands and attention away, muttering something undecipherable under his breath that’s kinda sexy as far as my blood-deprived brain is concerned.

“Stay awake,” he demands. “We’ll be at the hospital in less than five minutes.”

I nod, determined to comply. But the closer we get to the hospital, the more space that freshly packed trauma box takes up in my mind, demanding to be acknowledged.

It taunts me. Torments.

“We’re close.” Salvatore takes a corner at speed, forcing me to tense muscles that don’t want to be tensed.

I wince through the discomfort and right myself in a seat now coated in my blood.

“Don’t tell anyone your name.” He pulls up to the hospital, stopping at the ER. doors, hitting the brakes and the horn at the same time. “I can keep you safe. Just don’t tell anyone your name.” He launches from the car and drags me into a whirlwind where I’m carried from the vehicle and rushed toward approaching hospital staff who pepper me with questions.

“Tell me what happened?”

“How did you get these injuries?”

“When did the incident occur?”

I feign incoherence while I’m placed on a gurney and wheeled down a brightly lit hall, losing sight of Salvatore.

“Get trauma bay one ready.”

“We’ve got active bleeding—suspected abdomen.”

“Multiple penetrating wounds. Clean punctures.”

They push my gurney into a room filled with medical equipment, an entourage of concerned-faced professionals hustling around me, grabbing gloves and opening drawers.

A man raises my pajama top. I’m poked and prodded.

“Where’s Salvatore?” I rasp, trying to sit up.

I’m pushed back onto the gurney by the male doctor who looks too young to hold credentials.

“Can you tell me your name, miss?

“How many wounds do you have?”

“What were they inflicted with?”

I crane my neck to look toward the door as multiple hands descend upon me, checking vitals, inspecting wounds.

“She’s tachycardic.”

“Prep for a transfusion—type and cross match ASAP.”

My wrists are turned from side to side, my injuries pointed out by glove-covered fingers. Then a female doctor claims my vision, getting right up close to steal my attention. “I need you to tell me your name, sweetheart.”

I shake my head, still coherent enough to understand the dangers of that admission.

There can’t be a hospital record of this. No paper trail. No surveillance triggers.

“What happened to you?” She holds my gaze with kind eyes, trying to coax the secrets out of me while the young guy cuts my pajama top down the middle.

“I, um…” I keep shaking my head, keep craning my neck for a glimpse of Salvatore while the once-ignored trauma creeps closer.

“Don’t worry,” the woman soothes. “The man you came in with is talking to medical staff. We need to concentrate on you right now. How did you get these injuries?”

I’m rolled onto my side by the male, my pajama bottoms sliced along my left so the wounds beneath can be inspected.

“There’s multiple lacerations to the upper gluteal region.”

“The abdominal wounds are our issue. We need to make sure there’s no perforation.”

“Book an OR and prep her for surgery.”

“Surgery?” My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.” The woman gives a pained smile, the commotion in the room increasing. “Have you eaten lately?”

“No.” I wince through the cacophony. It’s too much. The noise. The pain. The relentless pressure of that unavoidable trauma. “I barely had dinner hours ago. But I can’t have surgery.”

Her gaze turns pitying. “We need to get you into an operating room to check for organ damage and prevent sepsis.” She turns her gaze to the male still engrossed in my hip wounds. “I’ll page Griffiths.”

“Wait.” My bloody hand clamps around her arm, leaving crimson fingerprints on her scrubs. “I’m not ready.”

She doesn’t acknowledge me. None of them do, as their exchange of medical jargon drowns me out.

“Are you listening?” The trauma I’ve tried to ignore grows, tinkering with my mental stability, demanding the spotlight. I force myself onto my elbows, searching the room then catching sight of Salvatore down the hall, locked in a heated argument with security. “I need time to think.”

The doctor pats my fingers, dismissive but firm. “We can’t wait. The risk of infection is too high.” She peels my hand from her arm and sets it at my side, her pitying look enough to crush me.

The gurney rails are raised with a clatter, and I’m wheeled toward the door.

“No.” The once sturdy walls of my trauma box wither, the structural integrity collapsing.

Ivy, you’ve seen the signs. You can’t run from this.

“Please listen to me,” I beg.

The woman pauses, her eyes flicking down to my trembling hand gripping the hem of her scrub top. “What is it, sweetheart?”

The trolley jerks forward, the momentum jarring.

My gaze locks with hers, the words thick and tangled in my throat. I’ve fought against facing this for weeks. Have pushed aside the warning signs. Have pretended they didn’t exist. But there’s no pretending anymore. “I need you to be careful.”

Her brows knit. “Careful of what?”

I swallow down the razor blades in my throat and drag in a nauseating breath. “I think I might be pregnant.”