Chapter 4
Slow And Painful Death
The olive grove feels empty without you. Please write back soon. I want to hear all about America. —Love, Izzy
Izzy
The screech of tires wakes me.
“Shit. Hold on. I’m going to lift you, okay?”
I can’t reply; my mouth is too dry; my eyes still won’t open.
For a third time I’m lifted into someone’s arms, but this time, I can feel from the way they’re holding me, they're afraid of hurting me.
I’m gently placed into a car seat and laid down over the back. A new blanket is placed over me, the soft fabric adding a welcome layer of comfort.
“I’m going to get you to a hospital.” The voice is laced with concern. It’s a man; I can tell that much.
Wait. Hospital?
No, I can't go there. Lucas will find me.
It takes everything in me to force my eyelids open.
A man looks down at me. He has brown eyes, a pained smile, and the wrinkles on his face tell me he’s older.
He moves to close the door but, despite the pain, my arm shoots out and catches the sleeve of his flannel shirt.
“I need to get you to the hospital. It won’t be long now. Just hold on.”
“No,” I rasp. “No hospital.” The words are painful to say.
“You need to be seen,” he says, looking panicked.
I swallow hard. “Get… me…” each word feels like glass sliding down my throat, “to… Enzo Russo.”
I need to be somewhere I can fall apart.
The man’s face pales. But he must see something in mine because he nods before unconsciousness claims me.
Enzo
“I don’t care; I want the renovations finished within two weeks. Make it happen,” I snap down the phone to the contractor. We’re redesigning Piccola—my club—and it needs to be ready for the relaunch date.
After my night of drowning myself in liquor until I passed out at my desk, I’ve been busying myself with work so that I don’t have time to think about how the love of my life married another man yesterday.
She’s probably on her way to her honeymoon now. Enjoying marital bliss to a wealthy congressman. I could check, but what good would it do me?
“We’ll get it done, Mr. Russo.”
I throw my phone down onto the couch just as the intercom buzzes.
“What?” I grunt into the receiver.
“Mr. Russo, you might want to come down here.”
What is it now? “Why?”
“Um… there’s a man down here holding an unconscious woman. He says that he will only speak to you.”
The fuck?
I don’t reply, just shove my shoes on, tuck my handgun into my belt, and head down towards the lobby.
Dark marble surrounds me as I walk down the corridor, lit by soft warm lighting strips.
Henry, my reception manager, has a worried look on his face when I arrive, and I drag my eyes to where he’s staring.
I freeze.
An older gentleman is carrying a woman—limp, bloody, and bruised—in his arms.
But that’s not what has me frozen.
Because I would know that face anywhere. Even like this—eyes swollen, face puffy and covered in black and blue.
My gun is out and pointed at the man’s head before I have time to register what I’m doing.
His whole-body trembles. “P… Please. Mr. Russo. Let me explain.”
“Speak,” I bark, still pointing the gun at him with my finger on the trigger.
“I… I found her like this. She was left for… for dead on the side of the road.”
I purse my lips in suspicion. “How did you know to bring her here?”
“She… she said she didn’t want the hospital. I tried to convince her, but she said to take her to you.”
My gun lowers, and my feet carry me to them. I carefully lift her into my arms and cradle her to my chest.
My Izzy. What happened to you?
“Leave,” I say to the man, eyes narrowed into a hard stare. “Thank you for bringing her here. If I find out you had anything to do with her looking like this, I’ll kill you myself.”
The man runs like the building is on fire, and I turn my attention back to Izzy. I brush some of her matted hair back from her face, and she stirs as she hisses in pain.
Her swollen eyelids open just slightly, revealing pained blue eyes, and she attempts a smile.
“Tesoro1.”
“Hey, Cuore mio2,” I whisper, my head aching as tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I don’t even have it in me to feel embarrassed that I’m showing weakness in front of one of my men. “I’m going to get you help, okay?”
“No… hospital.”
Her eyelids flutter shut again, and I spring into action. “Henry, call Doc. Send him straight up. I’ll be in the guest room.”
“Yes, Mr. Russo.”
I bundle Izzy up in the blanket that was draped over her and carry her up to my apartment, where I lay her on the bed.
Her skin is a mosaic of bruises, both large and small, in varying shades of blue, purple, and black. She has a split lip and blood crusting under her nose. There’s blood dried to her thighs and anger burns hot inside me at the sight.
Whoever did this will die a slow and painful death. I will make sure of it.