Page 59 of Unholy Union
“No suspects as far as I’m aware. The shooters got away.”
“Cato. A word.”
I halt footsteps from the door, my jaw clenching. It takes me another second to look over my shoulder at him.
“Yes?”
“Your wife is not made of glass. I’m sure she’ll recover,” Papà says. “Send some staff to pick her up from the hospital. They can bring her home and ensure she’s looked after. You have more important matters to attend to, like our meeting with theFalcos this afternoon. We have to negotiate the terms for their assistance in sabotaging Corsini Construction.”
“Harper, reschedule the meeting with Rudy and the Falcos,” I say, passive aggressively ignoring him. “I’ll be out of the office the rest of the afternoon. I have more important personal matters to handle, like my wife.”
I walk out the room with nothing else to say and no further looks back.
The automatic doors barely finish parting before I’m moving, brushing past the nurse trying to brief me. Her voice is background static—words like grazed, bruised, and stable float uselessly in the air around me while my pulse pounds like a war drum in my ears. I don’t care what anybody says.
I need toseeher.
Need proof she’s still in one piece so I can count every wound with my own goddamn eyes.
I shove my way through the corridor, following the numbers she rattled off, my stride stretching with each step until I reach the curtained partition. One wrench of my hand and the fabric gives way, metal rings scraping harshly along the rail, and then?—
There she is.
Perched on the edge of the exam bed, knees drawn together, arms loose at her sides like they’ve forgotten how to function. Her long dark curls are a tangled mess around her face, matted and wild, strands clinging to her neck where blood hasn’t yet dried. The once soft floral dress she wore is torn at the shoulder and smeared with dirt.
It sends a fresh dose of rage spiking through me.
Her eyes are vacant and glassy, fixed on the floor like she doesn’t really process what she’s staring at. She doesn’t even flinch at first. She glances up and stares as if I’m some hallucination conjured from the trauma rattling around in her skull.
“Sabrina,” I rasp, moving toward her. I don’t wait for permission. I reach out, cupping her chin and tilting her face toward the light.
She startles at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.
There’s something almost childlike in the way she lets me handle her; something wary but pliant about how she is in the aftermath of such an ordeal.
Her skin is clammy under my palm, her lower lip split at the corner.
There’s a smear of dried blood near her temple. On the side of her face, just under the bandage that curves around the tip of her ear, I spot the swelling of a graze that could’ve killed her if it had been an inch to the left.
I release a slow, furious breath, dragging my gaze lower.
A bruise has spread along her throat like ink spilled across a page, dark and stark against her olive skin. That must be where the seatbelt caught her. Another scrape peeks out under the torn edge of her dress.
And then there’re the bruises on her knees.
Christ.
My fingers tighten around her jaw before I catch myself and loosen my grip. My chest is heaving, husking out ragged breaths that sound like I’ve run a mile. I don’t even remember when I started breathing like this, but it’s barely scratching the surface of the rage begging for release.
“She’s all set to go,” the nurse says from somewhere behind me. “We’ve patched the lacerations and prescribed a high-dosepainkiller. Nothing appears fractured, but we do advise minimal physical activity for the next week. She’s quite banged up.”
I don’t respond. Not yet.
Sabrina’s trying to shift off the table, those stubborn legs of hers moving despite how wrecked she looks.
But I’m faster, sliding my arms under her before she can stand. I’ve got an arm looped around her back and the other under her knees, holding her up in my arms.
She lets out a small, startled breath, her body going rigid in my arms.
