29. Aiden
Aiden
When I accepted this assignment, it never crossed my mind that Trent Doyle would get what was coming to him by having a heart attack.
When we lost him mid-flight, and Izzy started CPR, I had a decision to make. Stop her… or let her save the one man she needs answers from. If it were anyone else, I’d have pulled her off him without a second thought.
She’s still healing. Pushing herself like that could set her back.
But she’d zoned in, had already decided he lived. Stopping her was pointless. So I stayed ready, waiting for her to show the first sign of fatigue, so I could take over.
If he arrests again, I don’t know if he’ll make it.
At least it won’t be because she failed. She won’t have to carry the guilt now.
My girl has too much on her shoulders as it is.
Teddy’s voice cuts through my headset. “You staying or coming with me?”
“Staying.” There’s no way I’m leaving Isabel here alone. “You heading back for Rurik?”
“I am. Lane reported in. They tried to move him, but he came to fighting. Jen tried to calm him down, but he lost it. So, Gabriela tagged his sinus point.” He can’t help but chuckle. “She’s something else. Both of them.”
“Crazy, right?” I give my head a good shake. “Go. They’ll need the help. We’ll touch base later.”
He nods as I remove my headset and hand it back. Once I’m clear, he takes off before someone stops him.
This hospital is small. They probably transport more patients away by helicopter than they bring in. The sound of the blades fades as the doors swish open and I step inside.
I spot Isabel immediately. She’s squaring off with a man in a white coat, engaged in a heated discussion.
I move toward them quickly, ready to defend her if necessary. “What’s the problem?”
“And you are?” the man asks, gripping both sides of his stethoscope.
“Mr. Doyle is my employer.” I hold his gaze. “That man is Trent Doyle. The Irish mob boss. Sound familiar?”
I rest a hand on Isabel’s shoulder, grounding her while making a point. “And this is his daughter, who also happens to be a doctor.”
His eyes widen, telling me he recognizes the name.
“So I’ll ask you again, what’s the problem?”
Isabel doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “Dr. Miller refuses to let me go back.”
“Hospital policy. I don’t care if the future king walked through that door making demands. Who Mr. Doyle is doesn’t change how we treat him. We treat all our patients the same.” He gestures to the chairs behind him. “Once we’ve evaluated him, the doctor will come and talk to you.”
“Fine.” Isabel stomps her foot and heads for the waiting area.
Before I can join her, the doctor catches my arm. “I meant what I said. He’ll get our best.”
“Make sure he does.” My arm slips free with a slight twist. “And for the record, I understand you have policies. But that woman got him here alive. Don’t let that be for nothing.”
“We will do everything we can. You have my word.”
“One more thing.” My attention remains on him. “You may have another patient coming in. Critical thigh wound. Knife still lodged. He’ll need surgery.”
That lands. I see it in the way his expression tightens.
“This place isn’t exactly built for trauma,” I add.
“It’s not,” he admits, glancing toward Isabel before refocusing on me. “But we handle what comes through those doors. Our job is to stabilize and transfer.”
A pause stretches between us.
“We’re short on staff. Managing both could stretch us thin.”
I can’t help the smile that takes over my face. “Then you’re in luck. I’m ninety-nine percent certain my cousin will accompany them. She’s a surgeon at John Radcliffe Hospital. The same place Isabel is finishing her foundation years.”
I let that sink in.
“So when they get here… maybe break that hospital policy a bit. Have them do what they’re trained for, and your crew can zero in on Doyle.
“How long?”
“Twenty to get here. He’ll need to double back, load the patient, then return.” My eyes lift to the clock on the wall. “Call it forty, give or take. Depends on how cooperative the arsehole is.”
The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose before sighing. “Guess I’d better go prep my staff.”
He turns his back to me and rushes off, pushing his way through a set of solid doors.
With him gone, I join Isabel. My arse barely hits the hard plastic seat before she starts in.
“I could have helped. Sitting here feels like a waste of my time and talents.”
Resting a hand on her arm, I try to offer her support. “Let them do their jobs. You got him here. Now let them get him the rest of the way.”
“Fine.” A breath leaves her before she leans into me, her head resting against my shoulder. “I don’t get it. None of this makes sense. What are the odds that Trent would find us the same fucking day Rurik set you up? Something isn’t adding up.”
No, it’s not.
The whole thing’s been off since the beginning. Pieces that should fit together… don’t. I know I’m missing something that’s right in front of me. When I figure it out, I’m going to kick my arse for not seeing it sooner.
“I don’t know if I buy Rurik to be both a Del Markov and a Doyle. That’s messed up. They hate each other. So how can that even be true?” Her sigh says enough. Not shock. Disappointment. “Trent didn’t deny it. If anything he seemed to believe him.”
“I’ll dig into it. There are whispers in the family about Trent kidnapping Alexei Del Markov’s little sister during the war.
Claims he used her to draw Alexei out and kill him.
An eye for an eye.” After pulling out my phone, I message Darius, asking him to check into it.
“He kept her until the bratva left London. Only sent her back after they promised to stay gone.”
A heaviness settles between us. It doesn’t take a genius to know what they did to the woman being held captive.
“Sick bastard.” Her lips thinned into a tight line, her jaw clenching. “Makes me glad my mum got us out. Took me far away.”
She says nothing for a solid five minutes.
I give her time to process everything that’s been said today.
Out of the blue, she blurts out, “Trent claims he hired my grandmother to steal the Botticelli from Rurik’s uncle.” Her voice is calmer now, edged with disbelief.
“I can’t wrap my head around Grams being an art thief.” Her sad eyes peer up at me, heavy with doubt. “Do you think that part is true?”
“Hard to say.” My attention is entirely on her. “Keeping something like that from Darius wouldn’t be easy. He’s built a reputation on digging up what others believe to be buried. And from what I know, it’s never come up.”
It’s not a solid answer, but an honest one.
Could this be yet another secret deliberately hidden from her? Sure, but it doesn’t sit right. Everything I’ve pieced together about Antonio says he wouldn’t take that kind of risk. Not with his family. Not with her.
So, either Alma was incredibly sneaky, or Trent is lying. And if he is, I can’t see why. No gain. No angle.
It’s a conundrum I plan on solving as soon as this shitshow slows down.
“Sir Edward would’ve known,” Isabel whispers. “He made it his job to know everything.”
Doubt lingers in her voice. “He knew about Gino. Didn’t tell a soul. Best-kept secret in Hermosa Islas… or it was.” A hollow breath leaves her. “Mine might top that now.”
Her gaze drifts, unfocused. “King Ramon never cared about anyone but himself. My mother, Gino, me… it doesn’t make sense.”
The hum of the hospital presses in.
“I feel like I’m stuck in a dream. That I’ve awakened in an alternate universe. Stuck in a nightmare I can’t get out of.”
A light nudge of my elbow breaks through her thoughts, a quiet reminder she’s not stuck in her nightmare alone. “Even the parts where I appear?”
A hint of amusement dances around her mouth. “So, maybe not a nightmare. More like a dark romance where you’re the morally gray lead, offering me an escape while the world falls in around me.”
“Do you read a lot of those?” Reaching out, I take her hand and clasp it in mine.
“I’ve read my share. Not sure I’ll enjoy them as much after having lived one. Bit ironic, considering I always thought being the female lead would be a nice escape from my life.”
Isabel’s fingers tighten around mine. “There’s one thing, though. Those stories always have a plot twist. Something no one ever sees coming.” She closes her eyes and leans against me again. “I don’t think I can take another one of those. I’ve dealt with too many already.”
Plot twists?
We’ve uncovered a few of those.
“Whose gun was wrapped in my grandmother’s scarf?
” She sits up now, fully focused. “It’s not my grandfather’s.
The only gun he owned was locked in his desk drawer.
Grams hated guns. It’s definitely not hers.
So, where did it come from? How did it end up in the floor safe when that room is always locked? ”
Frustration edges her voice. “I don’t like where my mind is taking me. Even with her dementia, I can’t see my grandmother killing anyone. So, who the hell is she protecting?”
Protecting someone?
I shake my head in disagreement. “I don’t see her doing that. The only person she’d want to protect is you. And there’s no reason. You didn’t kill Rico.”
“I did not.” Her eyes go wide, as her tone sharpens. “But what if she saw who did?”
Her words hit their mark, and something clicks.
“Maybe she did. When you checked her room during the fire alarm, her bed hadn’t been slept in, right?”
“Right.”
“Is it possible she went to talk to your grandfather that night?”
“I guess she might have.” A small shrug follows. “After that man nearly ran us down, she couldn’t stop talking about him. Kept saying my grandfather was probably passed out in his office drunk.”
“Which gives her a reason to go and talk to him.”
The pieces are starting to line up.
“She checked his office. He’s not there.” I turn to look at her. “So, she tried his bedroom.”
It’s a theory that can’t be proven.
“Walked in on something she shouldn’t have,” I toss out there to see how it sounds.
With a slight shake of her head, she dismisses that thought. “But wouldn’t they have noticed her?”