Page 63 of Seduced By the Enemy

“Because,” he snapped. “If she’s not welcome, then how can I? She is the woman I love, Dante. Would you play happy families if we all cut Georgia out? Look at how we all put up with Marcia, even when we loathed her. For Raf’s sake. This was never about Emilia, though God knows she deserved better.”

His voice was thick now. He had no idea if he was even making sense.

“Emilia is a part of your life,” Dante said, quietly, calmly. “But she will never be a part of ours. I cannot believe you would choose to ignore the fact we exist…”

“Shut up, Dante,” he ground out, the grief like a wave, absorbing him. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“I know how we feel. I know?—,”

“Emilia is not a part of my life. We’re over.”

Silence was like static down the phone line. “Since when?”

Salvatore closed his eyes. “What’s the matter? Did you think I’d call my loyal, loving family for a heart to heart?”

“Salvatore—,”

“It doesn’t change anything,” Salvatore said. “I’m not coming home. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all dead to me. Lose my goddamned number, and tell the rest of them to do the same.” He disconnected the call with a jab of his finger then turned his phone off for good measure.

Emilia was actually having a halfwaydecent day when she saw the headline and her whole world came crashing down anew. Sitting at the dining table of her apartment, a coffee and bagel in front of her, she was scrolling the online edition of her favourite newspaper when she flicked the page and saw: ITALIAN BILLIONAIRE HOSPITALISED. Even before she read the subheading, her stomach had sunk to her toes.Salvatore Santoro is in a critical but stable condition in Singapore after a high speed collision late last week. Little is known of the accident itself, though it’s believed speed and alcohol were afactor. His family has asked for privacy at this time.Nausea rose in her throat as she scraped her chair back and ran to her room.

He didn’t love her anymore, but she sure as hell loved him, and the thought of not seeing him, not knowing that he was going to be okay, was unbearable. Without giving it a modicum of rational thought, she threw some random clothes in a bag, grabbed her passport and made her way to the private airfield where their family jet was kept.

The flightfrom New York to Singapore took almost a full day. Emilia had practically dug a hole in the front of her phone screen with the number of times she’d refreshed it, looking for any kind of news about Salvatore. Her feeling of sickness didn’t alleviate. She felt utterly at the end of her patience and sanity.

She practically sprinted from the private jet through the private customs terminal and into the waiting car. She gave the name of the hospital the article had referred to and then closed her eyes, focused on her breathing, trying to pull herself together enough for what lay ahead, even when her insides were throbbing with panic, terror and the fear that he might die.

It didn’t even occur to Emilia until she arrived at the hospital that she might not be able to get in to see him. Being told that it was ‘family only’ felt like a kick in the guts. She looked around, bewildered, wondering who she could call or plead with to get past the front desk staff. She paced the foyer, with no concept of how wild she looked, how utterly consumed by stress and grief. Her hair was long and loose, tangled because she’d hadn’t thought to brush it since before reading about Salvatore’s accident. She was still wearing the yoga pants and sweater she’d had on in New York, and her handbag was a bright red because it was the first thing she could lay her hands on.

It was little wonder that she drew attention. Particularly the attention of an immaculately presented blonde woman who, followed by two men in black suits, was click clacking her way across the foyer. Emilia didn’t notice the way the other woman threw her a second glance then stopped walking, hesitating a moment before changing direction and approaching Emilia. In fact, it was only when Her Royal Highness Sofia of Moricosia put her hand on Emilia’s arm that she stopped pacing and spun around, expression like that of a feral animal. Sheer terror and frustration were evident in her eyes, and her lower lip was dark and swollen from where she’d been gnawing on it.

“I can’t get into see him,” she said, quickly, without so much as a greeting.

Sofia, though, did not seem to mind. “Does the rest of the family know you’re here?”

Emilia blanched visibly. “No. I didn’t—no one called me. I just—I saw the article. I came as quickly as I could.”

Sofia’s brow furrowed. “I’m so sorry no one called you. They can all be so stubborn.”

Emilia’s eyes flooded with tears and her hands wrung in front of her. “How is he? Please, please, how is he?”

Sofia shook her head softly. “Come and see for yourself, Emilia. But I should warn you, he’s not out of the woods. You will find the sight…confronting.”

Emilia sobbed then, pressing her hands to her mouth, and wondering why on earth she’d let him end it. Why hadn’t she said it was fine that he didn’t love her? That she’d take whatever crumbs he threw her way? Why hadn’t she said and done anything to keep him in her life? What a waste of time they could have spent together.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Please, please, take me to him.”

“Of course,” Sofia said, and she curled her hand through the crook of Emilia’s arm, perhaps because she could see how desperately Emilia needed the support.

“I found Emilia in the foyer,”Sofia spoke, the moment they entered the room. Though Emilia’s eyes instantly fell to the bed in the centre of it, she was aware, in the background, of various members of the Santoros. She dropped Sofia’s hand, then, though, and ran to the bedside, a guttural sob wrenched from her at the sight of Salvatore. His eyes were shut, his face bruised, one arm and one leg in a plaster cast, with all sorts of wires connected to his chest, and a tube jammed down his throat. It was so much worse than she’d anticipated.

“Oh my god,” she cried, reaching for his hand that was bandaged and touching it gently, careful not to dislodge the monitor clipped to his finger. “Oh, my darling,” she sobbed heavily now, uncaring that there was an audience, uncaring about anything other than this. Her tears fell freely, her chest moving with the force of her grief. She didn’t see the way the various Santoros looked at each other. The shame and guilt on their faces. And yes, regret, too. She didn’t recognise the way they looked as though they would do anything to go back in time and fix what they’d done.

Because Salvatore wasn’t just banged up by the accident. He’d lost so much weight even before that, he was a shadow of his former self. One look at him, and they’d all understood: they’d chosen a path that would kill him. They’d forced him into a life he had no interest in living. And Emilia’s arrival only added to the proof they shouldn’t have needed—that they’d been wrong to separate two people who clearly loved and needed one another.

“He was hit by a drunk driver,” Dante Santoro spoke first, coming to stand beside Emilia, putting a hand lightly on her back. As with Sofia, Emilia suspected it was because he could see how close she was to passing out. As if to reinforce that, a moment later, Marco Santoro had brought a chair into the room and put it beside the bed, for her to sit down at. She collapsed into it and stared at Salvatore, willing him to wake up and look at her. Willing him to be himself again. To become the man she loved with all her heart. “It was early in the morning, Salvatore was driving towards the sun. It was a quiet road, perhaps he didn’t expect to encounter another car. Whatever the reason, he didn’t get a chance to swerve to avoid it, and this is the result.”

“Is he—is he going to be okay?” It took all her courage to ask the question. Silence fell. She looked around the room properly for the first time, her eyes sweeping across the various brothers and sisters in laws, cousins and cousins’ wives, and finally on Salvatore’s parents, who looked to have aged about a decade in the months since she’d last seen them, that awful weekend in Italy.

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