Chapter 36 Adrian
Adrian
The explosion tears through the front of the bookstore like the hand of God, and I let out a stream of curses.
Fucking Luc. I told him to give me a distraction, not blow up the fucking building. Dickhead.
I'm through the door before the debris stops falling.
Gun drawn. Vision tunneled. Every instinct screaming one word: Sera.
My men pour in behind me. They fan out following their orders—find my wife.
I move through the smoke, through the wreckage, scanning for threats, for Sera.
That's when I see him.
Gabriel Romano.
He's on the floor, clutching his leg, blood pooling beneath him. One of my men got him—thigh shot, non-fatal.
Not for long.
I walk toward him, aiming my gun at his head. When he sees me, his face goes white.
"Adrian—"
I don't speak. Just aim.
This is the man who took my wife. Who drugged her. Who kept her from me while she was pregnant and vulnerable and terrified.
He's the reason my mother is dead.
And I'm going to put a bullet in his head.
Then another in his chest.
Then I'm going to unload the entire clip into his corpse just to be sure.
"Wait—" His hand comes up. "Sera—she's hurt—the baby—"
My finger freezes on the trigger.
"What?"
"She's hurt." He's gasping, trying to hold the wound in his thigh closed. "The baby—she's in labor—she needs help—"
I don't lower the gun.
Just turn my head.
And I see her. Sera. She is covered in debris and surrounded by blood.
The world stops as I take in the sight before me.
"Detain him," I snap at my men. "Don't let him fucking move."
I'm at Sera's side immediately.
She's curled on her side, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other braced against a bookshelf. Her face is pale. Streaked with tears and blood. Her ear—Jesus Christ, part of her ear is missing, blood matted in her hair.
But that's not what makes my heart stop.
It's the blood between her legs.
Too much blood. And it's too early. She's thirty-three weeks pregnant. This isn't supposed to be happening.
"Sera." I drop to my knees beside her. "Sera, look at me."
Her eyes are unfocused and glazed with pain.
"Adrian—" Her voice breaks. "The baby," she cries out, curling in on herself. "Something's wrong—I can feel it—"
"I know. I've got you." I'm already scooping her up in my arms. I can feel the blood, warm and sticky, flowing freely. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"I'm getting you to a hospital. Right now."
"It's too early." She's sobbing, trying to grab at me in her panic. "Adrian, it's too early. He's not ready. He's—"
"He's going to be fine. You're both going to be fine."
I don't know if that's true.
I don't care.
I'll make it true.
I carry her toward the door. My men part. Someone's already called for backup. For cleanup, but I don't stop to coordinate.
Don't stop at all.
Just get her to my car.
Luc is there. He sees us and his face goes white. "Jesus Christ—"
"Open the door," I bark.
He does, and I'm sliding in the backseat before I can think.
"Drive," I yell. "Mount Sinai. Now. Run every light. I don't give a fuck."
The car peels away from the curb.
Sera is shaking in my arms. Crying. "Adrian, I can't, he's not moving, something's wrong—" She cuts off, crying as another contraction hits. I'm terrified of looking between her legs. Will I see my son, or will he be a corpse...
I nearly vomit. Keeping it together only for Sera's sake.
"Just breathe. Focus on breathing." My hand is on her stomach. I can feel the tight, hard contractions. "We're almost there."
"I'm bleeding." Her voice is small. Terrified. "I can feel it. I'm bleeding and the baby—"
"Don't think about it. Just stay with me." I press my lips to her forehead. "Stay with me, Seraphina. Don't you fucking leave me."
"I'm scared." Her face, streaked with blood and soot, is pale. She's lost a lot of blood.
"I know." My voice cracks. "I know you are. But I've got you. I'm not letting you go."
The drive takes three minutes, but it feels like three hours.
I've never felt this helpless in my life.
We screech to a stop outside the emergency entrance. I'm out of the car before it fully stops, Sera still in my arms.
"I need help!" I shout. "Now!"
Nurses and doctors converge immediately. Professionals. Trained for this.
"What happened?" A doctor is already assessing her. Checking vitals.
"She's thirty-three weeks pregnant. She's bleeding. She's in labor." The words come out clipped. Controlled. "Fix it."
They're already moving, putting her on a gurney.
Sera's grip on my shirt tightens. "Adrian—"
"I'm right here."
"If you have to choose—" Her voice breaks as another wave of pain takes her. Her skin is clammy, and her lovely eyes are unfocused. "Save our son. Promise me. Whatever it takes. Save him. Tell him I'm sorry. I should have protected him."
"I'm not choosing." I lean down so our faces are inches apart. "I'm saving you both. Do you understand? Both of you."
"Adrian—"
"Both of you, Sera. That's not negotiable."
"We need to get her to surgery," one of the doctors says. "Emergency C-section. She's losing too much blood."
"Then do it." My voice is steel. "Save them."
"We will. But you need to let her go. Now."
I do. Barely. My fingers are itching to hold onto her.
They're already wheeling her away. Down the hall. Toward the surgical wing.
Sera reaches back toward me. "Adrian—"
"I'm right here." I follow them, keeping up with the frantic pace. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Sir, you can't come past this point." A nurse steps in front of me. Firm but not unkind. "We need to prep her for surgery. You'll have to wait."
"No." I move to push past her.
"Sir—"
"That's my wife. That's my son. I'm not—"
"Sir," a doctor appears. Older. Authoritative. "If you want us to save them, you need to let us work. You'll only be in the way. Your wife has likely had placental abruption. The longer we talk, the more likely it is we lose them both."
The words land like blows.
In the way.
Useless.
Helpless.
I look past the nurse. Past the doctor. To Sera.
She's looking back at me. Tears streaming down her face.
And then they wheel her through the double doors.
The doors close.
And she's gone.
I stand there in the empty hallway. Staring at those doors.
Hands curled into fists. Jaw clenched so hard it aches.
I've watched my father die. I've killed men with my bare hands. I've survived assassination attempts and hostile takeovers and war with rival families.
I've never been scared.
Not like this.
Not this bone-deep, consuming terror that steals my breath and makes my hands shake.
Because I can't control this.
Can't fix it.
Can't do anything except stand here and wait while strangers decide if my wife lives or dies.
If my son lives or dies.
If everything I've built, everything I've fought for, everything I love gets ripped away.
The hallway is too bright. Too quiet.
I can't move. Can't think. Can only stand here.
Waiting.
This is the worst moment of my life.
And all I can do is pray to a God I don't believe in that she survives.
That they both survive.
Because if they don't—
If they don't, nothing else matters.
Not the family. Not the power. Not revenge or justice or anything.
None of it matters without her.
Without them.
So, I wait.
And I pray.
And I try not to imagine what I'll become if those doors open and she's gone.