Page 87 of Mafia Darling

He took out a large plastic pack, ripped it open, and placed a bandage over Fausto’s abdomen. It had a large pad and what looked like a strange plastic handle attached. “We need to wrap his middle with this. I’m going to lift him a bit. Hold this pad and push the other end of the bandage under him.”

Marco slid his arms under Fausto and lifted, and I quickly did what he described.

“Now bring the bandage up, twist it once and slide it through the plastic cleat.”

Looking closely, I realized that what I thought was a handle had a small gap and I was able to pass the bandage through it.

“Now, go the other way now. Pull firmly, not too hard, in the opposite direction. Kind of like you’re cinching up a belt.”

I understood and pulled toward me and pushed the bandage under from the front.

“Good, keep going. This is a compression bandage. It will maintain pressure. Wrap it around as many times as you can.”

When I finished, Marco rested Fausto back on the seat and took the end of the bandage from my bloody hands. He tucked two small hooks under the wrapped edges of the bandage. “That will hold it in place. You did well, Frankie. Now the hospital must do the rest. How long?” he shouted up front.

“Five minutes,” Nesto said.

Oh, God. Was that close enough? Did Fausto have that long? Tears streaming once again, I grabbed my husband’s hand, squeezing hard, trying to give him strength through my fingers.

Nesto drove wildly, cutting through traffic, while Giulio talked on the phone, barking Italian at someone. When he hung up, he said, “The hospital is ready for him.”

That made me cry harder. People died in hospitals. My mother died in a hospital.

“Get David there, too,” Marco snapped. “He’ll assess the surgical staff and whether we need to fly anyone in from Rome.”

To work on Fausto. Oh, God.

“Frankie, be strong.” Marco’s voice was quiet and reassuring. “He needs your fire right now. Your spirit, not your tears.”

I nodded. Marco was right. I couldn’t fall apart. I was married to the most dangerous man in Europe, so I had to be prepared for the blood and violence that came with it. It was just . . . .

“I cannot lose him,” I whispered. My God, we hadn’t even been married for twenty-four hours.

“You won’t. He’s tough. This is the fifth time someone has attempted to kill him. He’ll survive.”

I stared at the red coating my hands, the blood all around us. It stained the front of my dress, the leather seats. There was so much of it. Why had I insisted on coming today? This was why he was so secretive, why he stayed close to the castello. But he relented because I’d asked. Had stopped to buy me gelato because I hadn’t eaten lunch. How could I have been so selfish as to demand this trip?

My chest splintered, so full of anguish and guilt that I could barely breathe. I’d never recover if something happened to him. I wanted to fuck in the vineyards and see him hold our babies, drink wine and take showers together. I needed a lifetime of memories with him.

I needed more time.

Please don’t take him from me.

We arrived at the hospital a few minutes later, tires screeching as Nesto turned into the drive. A team of nurses and doctors awaited, an empty gurney at the ready. Terror clawed into my throat. I wasn’t ready to let him go. If those people took him away, I might never see him again. Just like Mamma.

I swallowed hard. Be strong. They will fix him. He will not die. I repeated the words over and over as they took my husband from the car, put him on the gurney and wheeled him inside the building. My feet were rooted to the ground, my eyes focused on the doors, now closed. An arm slid around my shoulders.

“Let’s go inside.” It was Giulio. He had to be hurting, too.

I flung myself into his arms, wrapping around him. “Tell me it’s going to be okay.”

He hugged me, his heat and strength surrounding me. A long moment passed before he answered, his voice raw. “I can’t. You and I, we’ve never lied to one another.”

Oh, God. I clung to him, more tears leaking from my eyes. I hadn’t known I could cry this much.

“This is my fault,” I sobbed into his shirt. “He tried to talk me out of it but I wouldn’t listen. I can’t . . .”

I can’t live with myself if something happens to him.

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