Chapter 22 Dante
Dante
Real estate tycoon. Iron-fisted boss. Crime lord. Cold-hearted dickhead. All of these are true about me, but what I so badly want to be right now is a good husband. My wife has curled into herself, hiding from the world. I want to hide with her. I want to protect her from anything and everything.
I want to rip Ella's throat out. Unless Melody gets to her first—in which case, I want to watch. Avidly. With popcorn.
Melody trembles underneath my touch, and I have to force myself not to yank my hand away. I don't want to overwhelm her, but I need her to know I'm here. I need her to know I'll never leave her side. She looks haunted (Who wouldn't be?), and I want to kiss away her worries.
"Hello?" A man in a white coat stands nervously to the side, looking at our bedraggled little group. "I am Dr. Martinez. Your friend is in surgery."
"What's wrong with him?" Helena demands.
Dr. Martinez's eyes widen as he takes in her unkempt appearance. We're all unkempt, but blood stains her shirt and pants. Looking down at myself, I see I didn't get out clean, either.
"He is severely malnourished and has many broken bones. We are working to repair the worst of them. He will be stabilized." The man grimaces. "We are a small facility. We are doing everything we can."
"When can we see him?" Melody whispers, poking her head up.
Dr. Martinez's jaw drops. "Where is the cut?"
"What?" Melody scrunches her face in confusion.
"Blood—all over you. And you." He nods to Helena, who hugs herself tighter. "Where is the cut? Come! Hurry!"
A smaller group of nurses descends upon Melody. I'm on my feet before they can say a word. "I'm coming with her! She's my wife!"
"No." The doctor raises a hand and peeks over to a very large man with crossed arms. "I'm sorry, we need to examine her alone."
"She's my wife," I snarl. "You touch her—you make her feel any kind of discomfort? I shoot everyone in this goddamn building."
At the word "shoot," the burly man's hand flies to his hip.
Melody wrenches free from the grasp of a nurse and barrels towards us.
Even though she's hurt—and most likely still out of her mind on the injected drugs—she shoves herself between me and the security guard.
She throws her hands up, shielding me from him.
"Don't you dare hurt him," she grunts. I take a step back—I know my wife, and I know how dangerous she is in the best of times. But now? When there's a threat? I do not want to be caught in the cross fire.
The security guard grimaces and sweeps his gaze from head to toe. Her arms start to tremble. Disregarding all personal safety, I scamper forth and envelop her in my arms.
"You're okay, love," I whisper in her ear. "You're safe. I'm fine. Let's get you checked out, okay?"
She stiffens but nods. The doctor sighs in relief, and the security guard resumes his post by the door. I guess people covered in blood aren't a rare occasion here. Only when they start screaming about guns do they jump into protective action.
I can't blame them, but I stand by what I said. I'm going the fuck with her.
"Do you want him to come with you?" Dr. Martinez calmly asks Melody. She nods, and he shrugs. "Alright. Follow me."
The nurses reconvene on Melody, and I follow—a little perturbed, but I'm not letting her out of my sight.
I just won't. Not after everything she—we—went through.
The women usher her into an exam room and hook her up to every machine in the building, it seems. One of them straps a blood pressure cuff around her arm.
The cuff inflates, Melody winces, and every muscle in my body tenses.
"It's fine," she whispers. "They're doing their jobs."
I know. Logically, I know. But it doesn't unclench my fists.
It doesn't make my racing pulse slow to something near normal.
It doesn't stop the panicking sirens from blaring in my head.
I want to squirrel her away forever, hide her, protect her from the world.
I know it isn't healthy. I know it isn't good.
I don't care. All I care about right now is her safety. Ella won't touch her—she can't touch her ever again.
Melody focuses entirely on me as the nurses flutter around her.
One of them wipes the blood and dirt from her forehead while another types feverishly on her chart.
The doctor discusses something in hushed tones, entirely in Spanish.
Why don't I speak Spanish? I rake my hand down my face, grimacing at the scraggly feeling of my beard.
Cold beads of sweat gather on the back of my neck.
"We are going to take some blood," Dr. Martinez announces in a calming voice. "Is that alright?"
Melody nods, and I bite my tongue. I can't tear my eyes away from the nurse's hands as she wraps the tourniquet around Melody's bicep.
She sanitizes the crook of my wife's arm, and before I know it, her blood is flowing into the little tubes.
I flick my eyes back to her face, and she's still staring at me.
Intensely. As if she's worried I'll fade away unless she keeps an eye on me at all times.
"You've done very well, miss." Dr. Martinez smiles softly.
"Melody. Melody Lyons," I correct.
He flinches but quickly regains his composure. "Of course. I am sorry. You did very well, Mrs. Lyons."
Melody slumps back in the plastic chair and stares at the ceiling. She doesn't say a word. I open my mouth to check on her, but Dr. Martinez turns to me.
"Your turn."
"My turn?" I furrow my brow.
"You look malnourished. You are filthy—all of you are. As I said, we are not a large facility. But we can at least get you a shared room with an attached restroom. Shower included. But before that, bloodwork." He motions to the chair, and the nurses help Melody up. "Sit."
Narrowing my eyes, I tentatively sit where Melody was.
The chair is still warm. The nurses try to lead her out of the room, but she shakes her head and points to me.
A smug smile breaks out on my face, and she slips her hand into mine as Dr. Martinez fusses with my free arm.
I focus on my wife's face and try to ignore the cold swipe of antiseptic.
I don't move a muscle when I feel the pinch of the needle.
That man can take as much blood as he wants. I don't give a singular fuck. My wife is in touching distance, and that's exactly where I plan to stay.
The sun warms my body, and a straw hat covers my face. Waves gently ebb and flow a few feet away, sending a salty spray into the air. Sea birds call in the distance. I hear my wife and daughter giggle and splash in the ocean, and happiness fills my chest.
As I move the straw hat, I have to blink into the beaming sun to focus.
But the edges of my vision seem fuzzy, as if on a half-second delay.
I wave my hand in front of my face, and the movement seems stilted.
It doesn't feel quite right, but all thoughts of the strange feeling dissolve as Melody scurries over, hand in hand with our little girl.
"Daddy!" The child launches herself into my arms. "Did you see me? I jumped into a huge wave!"
"She did," Melody laughs.
"I must have missed it, munchkin." I pepper her tiny face with kisses, and she squeals with frantic laughter, squirming in my grasp.
"Is anyone hungry?" Helena yells out, materializing by my side. She produces a wicker picnic basket, overflowing with baggies of sliced fruit and sandwiches. "I've got enough for everyone!"
"Aunt Helly!" The little girl wrenches herself out of my lap and scurries to look into the basket. "Did you bring mangos?"
"Of course, I did. They're your mother's favorite." Helena smiles, rifling through the basket.
"And mine!"
"And yours," Helena laughs, then triumphantly raises a mango from the basket. "This one looks like it's perfect for you."
I blithely smile as I watch the most important women in my life dig into the food.
Melody, her best friend, and our daughter happily chatter away.
The tranquility of this scene overtakes me, and I feel all of the stress leak from my bones.
Towering palm trees sway in the gentle breeze, casting dancing shadows over the white sand.
A tiny crab shuffles by, staring at us with its periscope eyes.
Down the beach, dozens of other people laugh and splash in the ocean.
This is the perfect vacation. I'm so glad I was able to take everyone out here. Our daughter is the happiest little toddler. She's the spitting image of her mother with her chestnut brown curls, though she has my striking green eyes.
After my little girl finishes devouring her mango, she crawls into the beach chair with me and trails a sticky little finger over one of the many tattoos marking my arm.
She traces the distorted face and smiles to herself.
Dark eyelashes ring her bright green eyes.
Her eyebrows furrow in concentration as she traces the inked lines.
To our left, the joyful shouts and laughter morph into terrified screams. Gunshots ring out and shatter the peaceful beach scene.
Melody jerks her head up, fear and concern written across her face.
Automatic gunfire gets louder, louder, and I quickly overturn the beach chair.
Shielding my daughter with my body, I yell for Melody and Helena to hide.
"We have to be quiet, okay, baby?" I whisper to my daughter's terrified face. She snaps her mouth shut and nods, her beautiful eyes brimming with tears. "It'll be okay. I promise. We'll be okay."
I repeat the mantra to her, half-convincing myself as well. The shots get louder and closer. I hear frantic footsteps in the sand. Hunching over my child, I brace myself. The chair is kicked away from us, and she screams.
Her scream of pure terror permeates my bones. Keeping her behind me, I squint up into the sun and see Roman's scowling face. He points an automatic rifle down at me.
"Say goodbye, Dante," he growls.
I gasp myself awake, incessant beeping filling the air. Every frantic beat of my heart matches the beeps, and I realize it's my pulse. Sweat beads on my forehead and neck. A redheaded nurse I don't recognize scurries in, pressing buttons on the heart monitor next to me.
"You're okay," she mumbles. "You're okay. Don't wake your wife."
"Wife—Melody!" I suck in hissing breath.
She sleeps peacefully in a hospital bed that matches mine.
The machine hooked up to her finger beeps along with her heartbeat, too.
Strong. Constant. A little bit softer, though—as if the nurses turned down the volume.
Seeing her so peacefully sleeping melts my heart.
"What time is it?" I whisper to the nurse.
She points to the window. Heavy shades are drawn, blocking out most of the light, but the sun shines brightly around the edges. "Around noon."
"Jesus," I huff. "How long has she been asleep?"
"Not long enough. You need to rest, too. You've only been in this room for a few hours." She marks something down on my chart. "Since you're awake, though, can you rate your pain on a scale from one to ten?"
"Zero. Doesn't matter." I wave a hand dismissively. "Who are you?"
"Rebecca." She gives me a tight smile.
"And you… speak English without an accent."
"I do," she agrees with a nod. "I'm from Florida."
"And… where are we?"
Her eyes widen. "Jesus, what happened to you guys? You're in Mexico. Tunkas, to be exact."
Fuck. Hannah wasn't lying—though the climate seemed to suggest as much. "And where is that?"
"Yucatan. You're only a couple hours of driving away from Cancun, if that helps."
"It does," I mumble. Again, fuck. We were held captive by Ella for god knows how long.
We're in the Middle of Nowhere, Mexico. I don't remember how long it took us to drive here.
I just kept going, trying to find civilization, following signs that had the international symbol for "hospital" emblazoned on them.
"Well, good. Since Dr. Martinez and I are the only ones who know English, we'll be taking care of you." She gently pats my arm. "If you're ready to be awake… showers are over there." She throws a thumb over her shoulder, pointing to a rickety door in the corner of the room.
Another nurse bustles into the room holding a sheet of paper, whispering in rapid-fire Spanish to Rebecca.
The two women converse in hushed tones, and I feel so helpless just watching.
I curse myself—again—for not knowing Spanish.
Ridiculous of me, to be quite honest. I know some rudimentary French from my prep school days, but that's absolutely fucking useless right now.
"What's happening?" I hiss.
"You'll see," Rebecca murmurs. She creeps over to Melody and gently jiggles her shoulder. My wife scrunches her face in annoyance, grunting under her breath. "Mrs. Lyons. Hi. Can you wake up for me?"
"Uh?" Melody grumbles. Her beautiful brown eyes flutter open, and she fixes Rebecca with a glare. "Huh?"
"Hi there. I'm Rebecca, and I'm sorry, honey. But we need to start an IV on you."
"Why?" Melody and I ask in a chorus.
Rebecca looks back and forth between us with a tight smile. "She needs extra nutrients."
"Again, why?" I press.
"Because…." Rebecca sucks in a breath. "Congratulations, Mrs. Lyons. You're pregnant."