by Nicole Fox
He reaches out for me, and I scramble into the corner, holding my hands up to protect myself. He grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls, the material ripping as I strain in the opposite direction. Then, suddenly, his hand falls away.
I freeze, unsure why he stopped, and then I hear something off in the distance.
Gunshots.
Shouts.
Footsteps.
My father looks over his shoulder and then jogs for the door. He runs into the hallway without closing the door to my room behind him. I stay in the corner for a second, wondering whether it is safe to leave, and then I realize this opportunity might never come again. Whatever is going on outside this room, I’d rather face it than stay here and be a prisoner. So, I haul myself onto my aching bones and hurry off in the same direction as my father.
I run down a long hallway, following the sound of voices, and when I turn a corner, I nearly slam into my father’s back. He is standing in the center of the hallway, looking out into the main warehouse floor. At Luka.
He looks like a dark knight, standing there in his black t-shirt and dark wash jeans. His hair is perfectly mussed, beard unruly from what I imagine have been a crazy few days. He has his gun aimed at my father. As soon as I appear over my dad’s shoulder, Luka’s eyes find me, and they burn.
I feel his gaze like a physical touch, singing through my skin, and I want to run to him. I’m so thrilled to see him that I actually sob, my knees threatening to give out. I’m happy and horrified that he is here, standing in the middle of the warehouse. Alone. I keep waiting for bullets to start raining down on him, for men to come from every side and attack him. My stomach rolls with nausea brought on by morning sickness and hunger and nerves. The wave makes me unsteady, and I wobble on my feet. That is when my father’s arm slaps across my chest, holding me back.
“I’m surprised to see you,” my father says, smiling even though I can tell every fiber of him is taut and tense.
“That was the plan,” Luka growls. His deep voice sooths an ache inside of me. “Your men were ill-prepared.”
I look around and realize there are only a few men stepping forward for the fight. Either Luka fought most of them on his own already or the warehouse was lightly guarded. Considering my father thought Luka would reach out by phone first, he probably didn’t think he needed the entire Irish and Furino armies having a big slumber party at the warehouse.
I smile. Luka outsmarted him. We might actually get out of here alive.
“I assume you are here for Eve,” my father says, swiping his arm back and pushing me further behind him. “And the baby.”
Luka looks at me for a second, something flaring behind his eyes, but just as fast as it appears, it is gone. I can’t tell what he thinks about the news of our baby, but this is hardly the time or place to find out. We can talk about becoming parents once we are out of this warehouse and back in the mansion together. Once we have put all of this chaos behind us.
“You shouldn’t assume things, Benedetto,” Luka says coldly. He looks at me, his top lip pulling back in a snarl. “I don’t give a shit about some Furino bitch or the little bastard in her belly.”
I search his face for the lie, for a sign of his deception, but there is nothing. Just a wall of unfeeling ice. I don’t know what to believe, and I begin to shake. First, my legs, and then my arms. I’m trembling from head to toe, the world slipping out from underneath me.
Without Luka, I’m alone. I have no one.
My father frowns, and I can see him scanning Luka the same way I was, looking for the lie. When he doesn’t find it, he crosses his arms. “Then, why are you here? Why not call me and make a trade?”
“I prefer to handle my business face-to-face,” he says. “You know that. Plus, I wanted to end things with Eve in person.”
Luka steps forward, and my father flinches, but then he slips the wedding ring from his finger and holds it out. “You reneged on our deal, Benedetto, so now I’m backing out on my end. Eve is yours to do with what you will.”
My father’s laugh is humorless as he steps forward slowly. “What of my guns?”
“We’ll discuss the guns once I’m assured my duty to your daughter has been fulfilled,” Luka says, not even looking at me. I feel like a speck on the floor, unwanted and useless. He holds the ring out even further, insisting my father take it.
My father steps forward again, moving further away from me, and I realize this is my chance to run. The odds of me escaping the room unscathed are slim, but it is the best chance I’ll have. My father takes another step and another, and I prepare myself to run for my life. However, before I can run, Luka tosses the ring into the air. My father lifts his hands to catch it.
For one long moment, time stands still. I don’t know where to look.
There’s the ring, rotating slowly in the air, refracting the fluorescent light overhead.
There’s Luka – fierce, taut, dark, as inscrutable and fiery as ever, a walking enigma stirring up so many emotions in me that it’s going to take decades to figure them all out – if I even have that much time left.
And there’s my father. His eyes track the ring overhead. His fingers are reaching towards it. The glow in his eyes is twisted and greedy, the scowl on his lips a mixture of smug satisfaction and unrestrained arrogance. He almost has the ring in his grasp. The deal is almost null.
Then a shot rings out.
I cover my ears and fall to the floor, surprised and horrified, looking around to see who was shot. Luka is standing still. My father is standing still. I am the only one who has collapsed.
Then the ring clatters to the ground from my father’s hands as he tumbles down. His knees thud against the concrete floor. Blood blooms across his back.
Luka shot him.
He is here to save me. I’m not alone. Luka came to save me.
Before I can fully grasp the reality, Luka spins and shoots the first of the Irish soldiers who have suddenly raced around the corner to where the three of us are standing. The man falls instantly, but then another shot rings out, and Luka’s body twists unnaturally. He falls to one knee, wincing in pain, and though I can’t see the blood because of his black shirt, I know he has been hit. He spins to fire back at the man who shot him, but his range of motion seems to be limited. That is when I notice the bandage peeking out from under the collar of his shirt. His shoulder is wounded, making his reactions a little slower.
He fires and the man ducks behind a pillar, giving him time to get back to his feet.
Blood is pooling around my father’s body, and I have to step through it to get to him. He is gasping for air like a fish out of water, his mouth puckering with each breath. He looks up at me as I approach, but I don’t make eye contact. He isn’t worth it, and I don’t have time.
I pull up his shirt and grab the gun at his waist. The gun he was too cocky to pull out and aim at Luka. He whimpers as I take it, but I ignore him.
Luka is yelling for me to stay back, telling me to hide, but then the soldier pops out from behind the pillar and fires again. Luka cries out and falls.
I don’t know where he has been hit or if it is fatal. All I know is that the Irish man in front of me shot at the father of my child. He shot at the man I have come to love. And I will stop at nothing to make him pay.
I’ve only handled a gun a few times in my life, but I feel perfectly at ease as I raise the weapon and begin to fire. One shot after another after another. I keep pulling the trigger as I approach him until, finally, he darts out from behind the pillar to find a better shield, and one of my bullets finds his chest.
I’m at Luka’s side before the man’s body hits the ground.
My body is weak and shaky from lack of water and food, but I find the strength to wrap an arm around his back and haul Luka to his feet. He limps with me through the doors of the warehouse and into his car.
Once he is sitting in the passenger seat, I see the blood smears on the leather cushion and across my clothes
. My hands are covered in blood, and his usually tan face is pale.
“What now?” I ask. I want to take him to the hospital, but there could be too many questions. Once police get involved, things could become problematic.
He directs me down side roads, his voice growing weaker with every turn, while tapping out a string of messages on his phone. The longer I drive, the more the phone slips in his grip. I can see him slouching down in his seat, and I’m not sure what I’ll do if he falls unconscious.
“How much further? I don’t know where I’m going, so you have to stay awake.”
“I’m fine.” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it, and when I look over, his eyes are unfocused.
“Don’t leave me alone right now,” I say. “Not like you did the last few weeks. Don’t leave me again. Stay with me.”
His eyes flutter, and I can tell he is fighting it. So, I give him something to fight for.
“None of this would have happened if you’d believed me from the start, you know that? You are about to die because of your own pride.” He turns his head towards me, but his eyes are still looking through the windshield. I lightly slap his cheek with the back of my hand. “Don’t pass out just to escape the fight, Luka. I have a lot of things I’d like to say to you, and it would be a real shame if you died before I could get it off my chest. Keep your eyes open.”
His mouth turns up in a half-smile, and I wonder what he is hearing right now. Because it can’t be me ranting and raving at him while he is bleeding out next to me. “If you are seeing a bright light right now, so help me.”
He blinks slowly like it is a video being played in slow motion. For several long seconds, I don’t know if he is going to open his eyes again. I mentally curse, but try to stay calm. “Luka. Please keep your eyes open. Please. I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Turn right,” he says, opening one eye and pointing with a weak hand at the next corner. “The gray house on the corner.”
I see the house, and I slam on the gas, trying to get us there as quickly as possible. The acceleration of the car sends Luka’s hand slamming back against the head rest. He is too weak to keep himself upright.
“Hang in there. We’re almost there.”
He mumbles something I don’t understand, and the panic in my chest ratchets up a notch. “Luka.” I reach out and grab his hand. His fingers are cool in mine. “Luka, I love you, okay? Please don’t fall asleep. We are here now. Open your eyes. I love you.”
The words are panicked and scared, but no less true. I do love him. More than I ever thought possible, and the idea of losing him like this is unbearable. He doesn’t open his eyes or move, and I screech to a stop in front of the house and get out of the car. I fumble with the passenger handle before finally getting the door open. Luka slides out of his seat, and I catch him just before he can slip out of the car and land in the grass.
I hear the door to the house open and someone is cursing as they run across the grass towards us, but I just stroke his dark hair away from his pale face. Tears burn at the backs of my eyes as I lean forward and kiss his forehead.
He opens his mouth, a raspy breath coming out, and I bite back a sob. Then, his eyes flutter open, green like sunlight coming through a tree, and he looks at me. “I love you,” he says.
The words are quiet and broken and breathy, but they are there, and I cling to them as the doctor and I stumble and fall carrying Luka’s battered body onto the porch and into the house.
28
Eve
Dr. Cruso kicked me out of her “operating room,” which is really a guest bedroom she has fashioned into a kind of field hospital, within the first ten minutes after we arrived. Apparently, I was hovering and making her nervous. So, I’ve been sitting in the waiting area—really, it is the dining room—for three hours, pacing and crying and praying.
After Luka told me he loved me, he drifted into unconsciousness and didn’t wake up at all when we carried him into the house, even when we nearly dropped him going up the stairs. I don’t know what I’ll do if he isn’t okay. If he doesn’t wake up.
I push the thought from my head and wish I had an out-of-date magazine I could read, but this waiting room is nothing more than a few rickety chairs and dust. So, I pace.
I’ve debated whether I should call his father or not to inform them of his condition, but I don’t think I could handle having them here in the waiting room, as well, so I don’t. Besides, Luka is going to wake up, and he would be annoyed if I worried everyone for nothing.
My pacing is interrupted by a phone call. It is Luka’s phone, and I almost don’t answer it, but I’m edgy and desperate for a distraction.
“Hello, Luka Volkov’s phone,” I say, sounding more like his secretary than his wife.
“Gabriel,” the soldier says, identifying himself in as few words as possible. “Tell Luka the O’Neills have been relocated.”
I pause, waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t. The line is so quiet I wonder if he didn’t hang up on me.
“Hello?” I ask.
He sighs. “Just tell him.”
The line goes dead, and I pull back and look down at the phone. I don’t know what that was, but I make a mental note to remind Luka if—when he wakes up.
I pace for another hour. I pace until my feet hurt and my knees ache and my hips feel like they are just two bones rubbing together. I pace to the operating room door, press my ear against the wood, and listen for anything. There is just the sound of metal clattering and the hum of machines. I don’t hear Luka’s voice. So, I pace back to the waiting room.
Then, Luka’s phone rings again, and again, I answer it.
“Luka Volkov’s phone,” I say.
“Who is this?” the male voice on the other end of the line sounds suspicious.
“His wife,” I say, ignoring the flutter in my stomach at the title. “Who is this?”
“Oh, Eve,” the man says. He sounds like he knows me, so I look down at the phone, but the number is private.
“Who is this?” I repeat.
“I’m glad he found you. Tell him my family and I said thank you.” The voice is kind and warm, but before I can ask any more questions, the line is dead.
My best guess is that the second call must have been from one of the O’Neills, and while the calls didn’t make much sense to me, they confirm what I’ve suspected all along: there is more good in Luka than he wants anyone to know.
When I finally grow weary of pacing, I collapse into a chair, and I’m sitting down for no more than ten minutes when Dr. Cruse finally opens the door and steps into the room. I bolt to my feet and sprint to her so quickly she holds her hands out to keep me back.
“He has regained consciousness,” she says. “He is in a lot of pain and—”
“Is he okay?” I ask, interrupting her. “Is he going to make it?”
“Yes, he’ll make it.”
I nearly collapse with relief. “Can I see him?”
Dr. Cruso grabs my arm. “He needs to take it easy, Eve. You have to make sure he takes it easy. I did my best, but I was working with limited equipment. If he tries anything too strenuous, the stitches could give, and he could bleed out all over again. You have to take care of him, okay?”
I nod. “I will.”
It is a promise I’m more than happy to keep. After everything we’ve been through, I might pay someone to place metal shutters over the windows of the mansion and keep us both inside forever. We can be hermits together. Safe hermits.
Dr. Cruso steps aside, looking weary, and I thank her and rush into the room. My eagerness is tempered by the sight of Luka.
There is an IV sticking out of his arm and bags of fluids and medicine hanging around him. Splashes of blood are dried on his arms and face. I’ve never seen him look so vulnerable. But his chest is rising and falling steadily, and when he hears me walk through the door, he turns and looks at me, his green eyes clear and steady on my face.
“
Hi.” Suddenly, I’m nervous. Now that he isn’t dying, I’m not sure what to say. Or where we stand.
He extends a hand out towards me, his fingers curling for me to come closer, and it is all the invitation I need. I rush forward, drop to my knees next to his bed, and press his palm against my cheek, curling into him like a cat.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“And I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, stroking a finger along my jawbone.
The events of the past few days begin to bubble up inside of me—fear and doubt and relief—and my throat closes with unshed tears. I try to swallow them back, but they won’t go.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, his hand warm against my face. “Everything is okay now.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m so sorry, Luka. I shouldn’t have trusted my father. I shouldn’t have—”
“I should have trusted you,” he says, interrupting me. “None of this would have happened if I’d trusted you.”
I stare at him. The words are familiar, and I wonder if he remembers—
“I may have been half-conscious, but I heard you yelling at me loud and clear.” He looks at me, and his mouth tips up in a smile. “You really know how to shame a dying man.”
My cheeks warm. “I was trying to keep you awake. I thought getting mad at me might help.”
“It’s hard to get mad at someone when they’re telling the truth,” he says. “I should have trusted you, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Every second we were apart was torture. Even when I was mad at you, I wanted to be with you.”
“Me too.” The words sound weak, and I want to find the same courage I found outside. I want to tell him how I feel, but instead, I just stare at him, so grateful he is awake and breathing.
He slides his hand down my arm and holds my hand, running the pad of his thumb along my knuckles. “You know, I heard something else you said before I fell asleep.”
