Page 81 of Reckless Woman
“There’s no heat yet. Cops are oblivious.” He pockets the cell and slides his hands into his black pants’ pockets. “The man who carried out the hit is running for his life, but the decision-makers won’t be. It’s only a matter of time before they try again. If she survives—”
“Whenshe survives,” I snarl.
“When she survives,” he corrects tersely, “we’ll move her as soon as she’s able to travel. I’ve sourced a private hospital a couple of hours away. In the meantime, you can’t stay here, Grayson.”
He says it like I have a fucking choice.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Listen—”
“Did you hear what I said?”
He curses under his breath. He knows it’s futile to try and talk me out of it. If the situation was reversed and it was Eve on that operating table, he’d be claiming Squatters Rights to this hallway.
His cell beeps again. “Have they told you anything?”
“Not yet.”
“Then go take a shower. I’ll stay here.”
“I’m not moving until someone talks to me, Dante,” I grit out.I’m not washing this blood off until they tell me she’s going to be okay. If she dies, I’ll wear it forever.
“Eve’s all over the place. She won’t stop crying. I’m flying her and the kids to a secure location in Africa. We need to consider the fact that Viviana may have escaped. If so, the island’s not secure.”
“You should have killed her six weeks ago,” I say dully.
“She didn’t do this.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Call it a hunch that Eve shares. I trust hers more than I trust mine these days.”
“Here.” Reaching into my pocket, I thrust a burner cell into his chest. “I kept a link with Rick after you threw him off the island for choosing Morozov’s daughter over you. I need you to put your fucking ego to one side and pick up when he calls. It’s your turn to make shit right for once, Dante. Nina Costin is a big connection to Morozov. She can help us. Rick swears she’s legit, and I’m inclined to trust him.”
I can feel the heat of his anger from here.
“Just do it,” I say, glaring at him. “For me.”
His next words are interrupted by a tired-looking woman in light green scrubs emerging from the operating room. In our line of business, you learn to read the slightest inflection in people, but I can’t read anything as she walks toward us. My head is a mess.Is she walking fast to deliver bad news quickly, or is she walking slow to psyche herself up for it?
“Hi, are you Anna’s husband?” she says, drawing closer.
“Grayson.” I close the distance even further, my heart in my mouth.
“Hi, I’m Doctor Carlson. I’m part of the team who’s treating your wife today.”
I’m staring at her, but all I see is the face of the police social worker who threw a scratchy blanket around my shoulders ten feet from where my dead mother lay.
It’s a face full of false promises.
“It’s going to be okay, son.”
No, it’s not.
“We’re going to take real good care of you.”
Three days later, I was in a home where they beat you black and blue for not saying your bedtime prayers fast enough.