Page 145 of Ruthless Redemption

“Don’t wimp out on me, brother.” Remy crouches behind him to inspect the injury. “This is a far sight less than the stab wound you gave me yesterday.”

“No.” I shake my head. “There has to be something else.” Something more. Matthew is too pale. Too quiet. Too still.

“Tell me what’s wrong?” I scan his body. His jacket. His suit pants. But he remains motionless, one arm limp on the lawn, the other resting over his middle. “I can’t see where you’re hurt.”

“Forgive me,mia dea.” He winces. “I failed you again…”

“No. You never failed me. You alwaysfoughtfor me.” Fought to have me. Fought to cherish me. “Talk to me. Tell me where you’re hurt.”

His eyes roll. He’s losing consciousness.

“What’s wrong with him?” I scream at Salvatore. “What’s happening?”

“Not… my shoulder.” Matthew raises the hand resting on his abdomen, revealing the blood soaking the white shirt beneath his jacket. “I’m sorry,la mia stella polare. I thought we’d have more time.”

No.

No.

My throat burns with the need to scream. “Everything is okay. I’m going to get you to a hospital.” I shove to my feet, attempting to drag him with me. “Someone help. I need to get him to a car.” I pull on his uninjured arm, trying to leverage him to his feet. “Someone help,” I cry.

Remy and Salvatore grab his arms.

“Layla,” he groans. “I can’t.”

“Don’t you fucking leave me. I already lost a husband. I won’t lose a soul mate.”

“You will never lose me.” His eyes turn solemn. “Even in death, you’ll be my obsession.”

“Stop it.” I can’t get enough air. My lungs are too tight. “Do something,” I demand of Salvatore. “Help him,” I scream at Remy. I glance around the yard, finding the remaining guard. “Help.” Then Aldo stumbles around the corner, his face bloodied. “Why isn’t anyone helping?”

29

LAYLA

“Bring him into the house,”Lorenzo shouts from the door. “Backup has arrived.”

“Help me lift him.” Salvatore moves behind Matthew. “Grab his legs.”

Remy complies while Lorenzo barks harsh Italian into the yard, inspiring his men to hustle toward us.

They assist in lifting Matthew as he loses consciousness, carrying him across the lawn, past the dead guard near the door, then Lorenzo, until they’re inside. I follow like a rickety train wreck, my mind running a mile a minute while my body functions on autopilot.

“The surgeon is already preparing in the basement.” Lorenzo squeezes my shoulder as I pass the threshold into the living area. “Everything will be okay.”

I don’t believe him. I don’t think anyone does.

I shadow the men across the room, my attention fixated on the blood being trekked over the pristine tile. I focus on each droplet. The contrasting crystal-clean white against the deep red of death chills me to the bone.

He has to survive.

He can’t leave me.

They charge for the far hall, away from the entry, taking him to a door that’s kicked open by the unfamiliar guard holding Matthew’s left shoulder.

I’m led down to the lower level, my feet stumbling over the stairs to an open space resembling a hospital operating theatre. An older man and a middle-aged woman wash their hands in the far sink. Both are in scrubs and surrounded by cabinets of medical supplies and monitoring equipment. There are metal trolleys. Display screens. Wires and vials and fluid.

But all I see is Matthew and the blood hedrip,drip,dripson the floor.

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