Chapter 43
Raffaele
“Alina!”
I roar her name as I watch her body collide with the car.
Time warps, stretching into an endless moment where she hangs suspended in the air before crashing to the pavement with a sickening thud.
My heart stops.
Everything stops.
Then I’m moving, shoving people aside with enough force to send them sprawling, my only thought reaching her. Nothing else matters. Not the bystanders cursing at me, not the driver stumbling from his car in shock, not the security guards racing toward the commotion.
Just Alina, lying motionless on the concrete, blood pooling beneath her head like a crimson halo.
“Move! Get the fuck back!” I snarl at the growing circle of onlookers, their phones raised to capture my nightmare.
A man in a security uniform tries to step into my path.
I grab him by the throat, squeezing just enough to make his eyes bulge.
“Stop me from reaching my wife, and I will fucking kill you.”
He backs away, hands raised. Smart man.
I drop to my knees beside her, ignoring the sharp sting as concrete tears through my pants.
Her face is ghostly pale against the stark red of her hair, now darkening with blood.
Her left arm is twisted at an angle that turns my stomach.
But it’s the growing puddle beneath her head that freezes the blood in my veins.
“Alina,” I whisper, my voice a broken thing I barely recognize. My fingers tremble as I press them to her neck, searching for a pulse. “Don’t you dare leave me. Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.”
For one horrifying second, I feel nothing. Then… there it is. Her pulse is faint but steady beneath my fingertips. She’s alive. Relief crashes through me with such force I nearly collapse over her body.
“Someone call an ambulance!” a woman shouts from the crowd.
“Already did,” another voice responds. “They’re coming.”
A middle-aged man in a tropical shirt kneels on Alina’s other side. “I’m a doctor. Let me help.”
I bare my teeth at him, my hand instinctively moving to the gun concealed at my back. “Don’t touch her.”
“Sir, she needs immediate medical attention. Her head—”
“I said don’t fucking touch her.” My voice drops to a dangerous whisper that leaves no room for argument. I’ve watched men die with that tone in their ears. “The ambulance is coming. No one touches her until then.”
The doctor backs away, joining the murmuring crowd.
I don’t give a shit what they think of me. Let them stare. Let them whisper. My entire world has narrowed to the shallow rise and fall of Alina’s chest, to the blood matting her beautiful hair, to the freckles standing stark against skin gone paper-white.
“Mogliettina,” I murmur, taking her uninjured hand in mine. It’s cold, so cold. I press it to my lips, willing my warmth into her. “I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay.”
Her eyelids don’t flutter. Her fingers don’t twitch in mine. She remains terrifyingly still.
“You ran from me,” I say, my voice breaking. “I know you thought I’d hurt you for killing him. But fuck… I could never hurt you.” I stroke her cheek with my free hand, careful to avoid the scrapes where her skin met pavement. “Do you hear me? I love you, Alina. I fucking love you.”
The words I should have said a thousand times before now hang in the air, witnessed only by strangers and my unconscious wife.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder. I tense, prepared to fight anyone who tries to separate us. When the ambulance screeches to a halt at the curb, two paramedics leap out, equipment in hand. They approach with practiced urgency, expressions professional and detached.
“Sir, we need you to step back,” the first one says, a stocky man with cropped hair.
“No.” The word is final, non-negotiable.
“Sir—”
“I’m her husband.” I don’t move an inch. “I’ll let you work, but I’m staying right here.”
The paramedics exchange glances before the second one, a woman with sharp eyes, nods. “Fine. Just don’t interfere.”
They work around me, their movements efficient and practiced. The woman stabilizes Alina’s neck with a brace while the man checks her vitals, attaching monitors and inserting an IV line into her arm.
“BP’s dropping,” the woman says. “Severe head trauma. Possible internal bleeding. We need to move her now.”
They slide a backboard beneath her with careful precision. I force myself to release her hand so they can secure her to the board. The moment they finish, I reclaim it, my fingers threading through hers.
“Hospital’s eight minutes out,” the man says, helping his partner lift the backboard.
“I’m coming with you,” I tell them as they load her into the ambulance.
The male paramedic shakes his head. “Family follows in their own vehicle. It’s policy.”
I step closer, looming over him, making sure he sees exactly who he’s dealing with. “Policy doesn’t apply to me,” I snarl. “She’s my wife, and I’m not leaving her side. Are we clear?”
Something in my expression must convince him, because he swallows hard and nods. “Just stay out of our way.”
As I climb into the ambulance, I spot Colin pushing through the dispersing crowd, his face grim. Our eyes meet, and without a word, he understands. He’ll follow us and handle whatever needs handling. I trust him to take care of everything else so I can focus solely on Alina.
The doors slam shut, and the ambulance takes off, sirens blaring. I wedge myself into a corner, holding Alina’s hand while the paramedics work around me. The small space fills with the beeping of monitors, the hiss of oxygen, the clipped medical terminology that means nothing and everything.
“Tachy at one-twenty.”
“Pressure’s still falling.”
“Get another line in.”
“Call ahead. We need trauma and neuro on standby.”
Blood seeps through the bandage they’ve pressed to her head. Her skin grows paler, if that’s even possible. Each minute stretches into an eternity as I watch them fight to keep her stable.
I should have protected her. Should never have let her out of my sight when Andrea was on the island. Should have told her from the start how I felt about my dad, about her, about everything.
Now she might die believing I wanted revenge for the man I’ve hated since childhood.
“Don’t you dare give up,” I whisper, squeezing her fingers. “Fight, Alina. Fight for us.”
The paramedic shoots me a sympathetic glance before returning to her work. I ignore her. There’s only Alina, only the rise and fall of her chest, only the electronic beep that confirms her heart still beats.
Andrea got what he deserved. I’d have killed him myself if she hadn’t done it first. The thought of him touching her, hurting her, threatening her life—my vision goes dark with rage.
If he weren’t already dead, I’d make his end last for days, weeks, months.
I’d take him apart piece by piece until nothing remained but a memory of pain.
But rage won’t help Alina now. So I push it down, lock it away to deal with later.
“Pressure’s crashing,” the female paramedic snaps, already pushing me out of the way.
I let her push me as far as possible without letting go of Alina because that’s not fucking happening.
The monitor’s steady beep becomes erratic, the line jumping wildly across the screen. My chest constricts as I watch them work with renewed urgency, injecting something into her IV, adjusting equipment.
For a moment that lasts an eternity, the monitor continues its frantic dance. Then, gradually, the beeping steadies, the line stabilizing into a more regular pattern.
“She’s stabilizing,” the male paramedic confirms, his forehead shiny with sweat. “But we need to move faster.”
I move back to her side as the ambulance accelerates, throwing me against the wall. I brace myself with one hand while maintaining my grip on Alina with the other. I won’t let go again. Not now. Not ever.
As we race toward the hospital, I press my lips to her palm, her wrist, her fingertips.
My wife. My world.
Reaching the hospital, they quickly wheel Alina inside, disappearing behind a door that reads, ‘Authorized Personnel Only.’
The double doors slam shut with a finality that stops me cold. Those three words might as well be a fortress wall between me and Alina.
My hands clench uselessly at my sides, still sticky with her blood.
For a man who’s spent his life controlling every situation, this helplessness is its own kind of hell.
I stare at those doors until my vision blurs, willing them to open, to give me some sign that she’s still fighting, still breathing, still mine.
“Sir?” A nurse touches my arm, and I nearly break her wrist before catching myself. “You need to wait in the designated area. I’ll make sure the doctors update you as soon as possible.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. My throat has closed up tight, strangling words before they form. Instead, I let her lead me to a waiting room with chairs designed to be uncomfortable enough to keep you alert but generic enough to forget. The walls are the color of faded hope.
The moment she leaves, I begin to pace. Eight steps one way, pivot, eight steps back.
A small family huddled in the corner watches me warily. The mother pulls her child closer when I glance their way. I know I probably look like I want to throttle them. I don’t. They don’t matter.
Colin appears in the doorway, his bulk filling the frame. His eyes find mine across the room, and he approaches with the caution of a man who knows exactly what I’m capable of in this state.
“Boss,” he says quietly. “The car’s been taken care of. No charges will be filed against the driver.”
I nod once. The driver is irrelevant. This isn’t his fault—it’s mine. I pushed her to this. Made her so afraid of me that she’d rather run into traffic than face me.
“Any word?” Colin asks.
“Nothing yet.” My voice sounds like it’s been dragged over broken glass. “They just… took her.”
He positions himself by the entrance, becoming part of the architecture. Only visible enough to discourage interruptions, but unobtrusive enough not to draw attention. The perfect sentinel.
I drop into a chair, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight. My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them flat against my thighs, spreading my fingers wide, watching the dried blood crack in the creases of my knuckles.
Alina’s blood. The sight of it triggers a fresh wave of nausea.
Launching to my feet again, I resume pacing. The overhead lights buzz with maddening persistence. A clock on the wall ticks away seconds. Time has no meaning here. It expands and contracts like a living thing, measured only in the space between updates that don’t come.
I think about Alina’s smile on our first morning in the villa. How the Caribbean light filtered through the curtains, painting her skin with gold. How she looked at me with trust I hadn’t earned but desperately wanted to deserve.
The memory shifts to her face at the dock; the fear as she pulled away from me. She thought I’d hurt her for killing Andrea. The realization cuts deeper than any blade. After everything, she still doesn’t know me at all.
“Mr. Russo?”
My head snaps up to find a doctor standing before me. Middle-aged, with lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. I didn’t hear him approach, a lapse that would have gotten me killed in any other circumstance.
“Your wife’s condition is serious,” he says, voice clinical. “She has a broken left arm that will require setting, but our primary concern is the head trauma. The impact caused what we call a subdural hematoma. It’s bleeding between the brain and its outer covering.”
Each word hits like a physical blow. I force myself to stand perfectly still, to absorb the information without reacting.
“We need to perform emergency surgery to relieve the pressure and stop the bleeding,” he continues.
“Do whatever it takes,” I tell him. “Spare no expense. Use the best surgeons, equipment, and everything else. I don’t care what it costs.”
He nods, unsurprised by my response. “I should warn you, this type of injury carries significant risks. Even with successful surgery, there’s a possibility of—”
“What are her chances?” I cut him off, needing the truth without medical cushioning.
His hesitation tells me everything before he speaks. “It’s difficult to say with certainty. The next twenty-four hours will be critical.”
My vision narrows, darkness creeping in at the edges. I might be swaying on my feet. I’m not sure.
“Can I see her? Before the surgery.”
The doctor shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Russo. But there’s no time.” With those words, he leaves. Disappearing behind those cursed fucking doors again.
The minutes crawl by like dying things. A nurse offers me coffee. I don’t respond. Someone suggests I clean up, pointing to the blood on my hands and my clothes. I ignore them until they back away.
I sit. Stand. Pace. Sit again.
My mind cycles through every moment with Alina—from the first time I saw her at the bakery to this morning in our bed on the island. I think about all the things I never told her.
How the simple act of her cooking dinner for me on the island meant more than all the wealth and power I’ve accumulated.
How I’ve never loved anyone the way I love her.
The admission, even in the privacy of my thoughts, hits with the force of a physical blow. I love her. Not just as a possession, not just as my wife, but as the center of a universe I didn’t know existed until she entered it.
If she dies believing I wanted revenge for Andrea…
No. I can’t think that way. She will survive this. She must.
Colin brings me water I don’t drink. Offers food I don’t acknowledge. The waiting room empties and fills with new faces, new anxieties. Still I remain, a statue carved from rage and regret and desperate, clinging hope.
When the surgeon finally appears, still wearing his scrubs, exhaustion etched into every line of his face, my heart stops beating entirely. I stand on legs I can’t feel, preparing myself for news that might destroy me as surely as any bullet.