13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
Off the Radar
Simone
I imagine this is what it feels like to be a wounded deer surrounded by wolves.
Blood in the air.
Bodies closing in from every direction.
Except these aren’t wolves.
They’re my family, doctors, nurses, and security officers, and they’ve hovered over me from the moment Luca carried me into the hospital.
All this attention, and I still feel alone.
Except when he’s near.
Which is a problem.
A dangerous, inconvenient problem.
Dad finally stepped into the corridor to speak with Luca and the rest of the security team, leaving Bran alone with me.
For the first time in an hour, I feel like I can breathe.
The bullet only grazed my upper arm.
Only.
As though having a piece of metal fired at me hard enough to tear through my skin is somehow insignificant.
I had been too overwhelmed by the performance to notice the first signs of chaos. The lights, the music, and the crowd’s energy consumed everything.
Then the first shot rang through the theater.
I remember turning toward the sound.
I remember seeing Luca running toward me as though the earth had split open behind him.
After that, everything becomes fragments.
His body slamming into mine.
The stage rushing toward us.
His arms lifting me.
His voice in my ear.
I’ve got you.
I didn’t realize I had been hit.
My entire body hurt, but I assumed it was panic. Adrenaline. The impact of being tackled to the floor.
Then Luca touched my arm near the waiting vehicle, and pain exploded from my shoulder to my fingertips.
Apparently, bullet grazes hurt like a bitch.
It has been a little over an hour since the attack.
An hour since the doctors cleaned and closed the wound.
An hour since the news spread across the internet that the Rochefort family had been targeted again.
This time, I’m the headline.
The pain medication makes my head feel heavy, but it hasn’t dulled the realization slowly settling into my chest.
I haven’t been taking this seriously enough.
Someone shot Dad.
Then someone fired at me during a performance held at a secret location protected by multiple layers of security.
Maybe the situation is worse than I wanted to believe.
Maybe I should be afraid.
I squint against the harsh lights above my hospital bed.
Why does every hospital insist on lighting rooms brightly enough to interrogate the dead?
My arm throbs despite the medication, and I don’t need to leave here with permanent damage to my eyesight too.
The bleeding has stopped. A clean white dressing covers the wound.
Bran sits in the chair beside my bed with his arms folded and one foot tapping restlessly against the floor.
He hasn’t left my side since he arrived.
He’s staring at me like I’m an unfamiliar insect beneath a microscope.
My tongue feels too large for my mouth.
“Stop looking at me.”
“I’m watching over you.”
“I’m fairly certain that’s God’s job.”
“I didn’t know you were religious.”
“I’m not.”
I attempt to shift and immediately regret it when pain shoots through my arm.
“Doesn’t matter. Stop staring.”
Bran moves his chair closer.
His expression makes me feel like a stray animal he’s considering rescuing.
“I’m worried about you. Someone attacked you at a private event with controlled access and extensive security.”
“Well, I’m alive.”
I chew the inside of my lip and glance toward the television.
Live footage from outside the theater fills the screen. Reporters stand behind police barricades, talking over clips of fans running from the building.
Bran turns off the television.
“You shouldn’t watch that right now.”
Anxiety tightens around my ribs.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
The question comes out smaller than I intended.
Those fans came because of me.
They entered that theater expecting music, not bullets.
If someone were injured—or killed—because they wanted to see me perform, I don’t know how I would live with it.
“No,” Bran says. “A few people were treated for panic attacks and minor injuries during the evacuation, but no one was shot.”
Relief rushes from me.
“The crowd was small, and the security team controlled the exits before a stampede started.”
“And the shooter?”
Bran’s expression darkens.
“Gone.”
My stomach drops.
“The north team reached the lighting platform less than a minute after Luca raised the alarm. By then, the shooter had already moved into the service corridors.”
“How does someone disappear from a secured building?”
“That’s what everyone wants to know.”
His jaw tightens.
“Somebody either knew the venue well enough to plan an escape route or had help on the inside.”
A cold sensation crawls over my skin.
“The cameras captured a masked figure leaving through a maintenance passage, but they lost him near the loading area.”
“So he escaped.”
“Yeah.”
Bran leans back in the chair.
“But Luca saw him before he fired the second time. That’s probably the only reason you’re sitting here with a graze instead of something worse.”
I turn toward the glass wall separating my room from the corridor.
Dad is speaking quietly with Luca.
I can’t hear their conversation, but I feel an immediate urge to climb out of bed and intervene.
Dad appears calm, as always, but his shoulders are stiff and his mouth is set in a hard line.
Luca stands several feet away with his head slightly bowed.
His jaw is rigid. His fingers flex restlessly at his sides as he listens.
He looks like he hates himself.
The memory returns with painful clarity.
Luca charging onto the stage.
Throwing himself over me.
Using his body as a shield.
Carrying me through the corridors while gunfire and screams followed us.
His hands moving over me beside the car, searching desperately for an injury.
The fury in his eyes when he saw blood.
Anyone looking at him now would understand that he blames himself.
Bran follows my gaze and sighs.
“Of course he’s doing that.”
I look toward him. “Doing what?”
“Taking responsibility for everything.”
Bran rests his elbows on his knees.
“If he’s anywhere near something when it goes wrong, he decides it’s his fault.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
He rubs both hands over his face.
“If a store were robbed while Luca happened to be inside, he’d blame himself for not noticing the thieves sooner. He’d blame himself for what they stole and for anyone they frightened.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s Luca.”
Bran looks through the glass toward his friend.
“He always thinks he should have been faster. Smarter. Stronger. That if he had paid closer attention, no one would have been hurt.”
His expression softens.
“He takes responsibility for everyone except himself.”
I watch Luca’s shoulders tighten.
“He’s been that way since we were kids,” Bran continues. “It got worse after his father died.”
His father.
Sometimes I forget that Luca’s dad worked for mine.
That he was the reason Luca became part of our lives.
That he died while carrying out an errand for Dad.
I always assumed Luca was intense because he lacked the ability to relax.
Because he took his work too seriously.
I never considered that every person he guards might represent someone he believes he failed to save years ago.
I’ve known Luca most of my life.
But he’s Bran’s best friend.
Not mine.
There are entire parts of him I’ve never been allowed to see.
I glance through the glass again.
Dad is still speaking.
Luca’s body remains wound tightly, like a cable stretched close to snapping.
I can’t read their lips, but Dad has the particular crease between his eyebrows he wears when he’s delivering instructions or expressing disappointment.
The possibility that he’s blaming Luca makes anger stir inside me.
I know—deep in the marrow of my bones—that Luca would have stepped directly into the bullet’s path if he had reached me one second earlier.
Job or not, he saved my life.
Without him, I might have died on that stage.
I shift restlessly and pull against the wound.
“Fuck.”
Bran sits straighter. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The answer comes too quickly.
“It hurts.”
Outside, Luca nods at something Dad says.
Then Dad places one hand against his uninjured shoulder.
Not a reprimand.
Reassurance, maybe.
Approval.
Luca nods again, but his expression doesn’t change.
I turn toward the ceiling.
My mind refuses to leave him alone.
I think about every time I’ve deliberately provoked him.
Every order I ignored.
Every rule I broke simply because watching his jaw tighten entertained me.
I think about him kneeling between my legs before the show.
His dark hair falling over his forehead.
His green eyes fixed on mine.
The way I touched his mouth as though his self-control were a toy I had won.
I don’t know what came over me.
It wasn’t the tequila.
It was indulgence.
A twisted desire to prove I could make him bend.
A power play.
Then real danger arrived.
And Luca didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t think about our kiss or the argument afterward.
He didn’t think about Bran, Dad, or the consequences of touching me.
He saw a weapon pointed in my direction and ran.
I know he was doing his job.
But the rage in his eyes when he saw the wound wasn’t professional.
At least, it didn’t feel professional.
I don’t know what any of it means.
The door slides open.
Dad enters alone.
Luca has disappeared from the corridor.
Dad’s expression softens when he notices I’m awake, though his gaze immediately begins assessing me.
His suit is rumpled. His tie hangs loose, and one arm still moves carefully because of his injured shoulder.
Even wounded, exhausted, and frightened, Francis Rochefort carries himself like a man who controls everything around him.
“You’re awake.”
“Excellent observation.”
He comes closer to the bed.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore.”
My gaze shifts toward the doorway.
“Where’s Luca?”
Dad’s mouth tightens slightly.
“He’s working.”
“I hope you weren’t blaming him.”
My voice comes out more forcefully than I intended.
“He saved my life.”
“She’s right,” Bran says. “Whatever happened today wasn’t Luca’s fault.”
Dad ignores the accusation.
He stands near the foot of the bed, staring at the bandage around my arm.
“We’re taking you out of the city.”
I blink.
“What?”