Page 79 of Beautiful Rush
On a hunch, I Googled Ivan Petrov, not really expecting to get any answers, but it was worth a shot.
Oh. My. God.
Ivan Petrov and Anthony Brennan were pronounced dead on the scene.
Deacon’s name had been withheld, citing that he was a detective who had been working undercover and they wanted to protect his identity. His ambulance had been escorted to the hospital by a motorcade of officers. Six men had been arrested and were being held in custody in connection with two hundred kilos of drugs and the weapons that had been seized in a Queens warehouse at 12:23 a.m. this morning.
I pocketed my phone as Killian pulled into a parking space by the hospital and cut the engine.
We found the Ramsey’s in the waiting room and Faye, Cal, and Abby all gave me a hug before I made the introductions. Then we took our seats and we waited. We drank coffee that we bought at the vending machine and listened to Deacon stories that his family told. I loved hearing about Deacon as a kid and the little anecdotes they shared.
Sometime during that horrible night of waiting and hoping and praying, I found peace. It wasn’t something I could explain or even understand, but I knew, in my heart that Deacon would be okay. I knew we would have our chance. I knew that life would not be so cruel as to take him away from all the people who loved him. I smiled at Faye who was sitting directly across from me and her smile matched mine.
Fifteen minutes later, the doctor confirmed what we already knew. Deacon was in critical but stable condition. He was going to pull through. He’d been lucky, if you could call it that. The bullet hadn’t hit his heart.
* * *
I satin the chair that Faye had just vacated and pulled it closer to Deacon’s bed, taking his hand in mine. He gave it a little squeeze.
“Hey baby.” His voice was hoarse and raw from the tube that had been down his throat.
I smiled. “Hey baby. You’ll do anything for a little attention.”
He laughed then winced.
“Oh God. Sorry. Don’t laugh. Shit. My bedside manner needs some work.”
That made him laugh again which looked painful. I was such an idiot. This was my chance to say all those words I had wanted to say, to tell him everything I was scared I wouldn’t be able to. Instead, I just stared at him, at the tubes from the IV in his arm, at the hospital gown that covered up the stitches in his chest, the oxygen tubes in his nose. At his face, so pale beneath his tan. And it hit me all over again. Deacon had been shot and we had almost lost him. “Does it hurt?”
“Can’t feel a thing. They’ve got good drugs in this place.” I tried to laugh, but it came out like a sob. He squeezed my hand again. “I’m okay. Got lucky.”
Only Deacon would say that he’d gotten lucky after getting shot in the chest, although earlier I’d been saying the same thing, now the reality didn’t feel so lucky.
“How is this lucky?”
“Had my lucky stone in my pocket. Could have gotten shot in the junk. That would have been a real tragedy.”
I laughed. “Oh my God. You’re crazy.” He smiled, his eyelids heavy like he was fighting sleep and trying to stay awake because I was here. “I should let you get some rest.”
“Stay. Don’t leave me.”
I swallowed hard. “I won’t leave you. I’ll be right here next to you. Get some sleep.”
His eyes closed and I sat by his bedside and watched him sleeping, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his heart still beating. I closed my eyes, letting all the emotions wash over me, the hours of waiting and worrying that he wouldn’t pull through. But he did. He was strong and he was a fighter and he was alive.
“I love you,” I whispered.
And then I let myself cry. Tears of gratitude and joy mingled with sadness and relief because I knew now that he was going to be okay and that somehow, some way, we would get through this together.
25
Deacon
SIX WEEKS LATER
It had been confirmed. Ivan Petrov was my biological father. While I was in the hospital, I had asked Casarico to send our DNA samples to the lab for testing. Better to know the truth than be forever wondering. It had been a match.
Over the past weeks, I’ve had time to think about what that meant to me and had concluded that it didn’t mean much. Cal Ramsey was my real father. For twenty-one years, he had always been there for me. When I was a kid, he had disciplined me when I needed it, played catch with me in the backyard, helped me with my homework, attended every parent-teacher conference and had met with the school principal and guidance counselor more times than either of us would care to remember. He taught me how to treat a woman with respect. He taught me how to be a man. And through all the ups and downs and my rebellious teen years when I had acted out and he probably hadn’t liked me very much, he had still loved me. I never had to wonder or guess. Not only had he told me, he had shown me through his actions. I had gotten lucky. I had been chosen by parents who knew how to love and freely gave of themselves, despite not sharing any DNA.
