he sits, he peers up from writing in his leather journal, pen pressed to the page. When he sees I’m awake, he places the pen behind his ear and closes the journal. “About fucking time.”
I attempt to speak, but nothing comes out.
Saint gestures with his head to the nightstand, where I find a glass of water. I attempt to reach for it with my right hand, but it’s bandaged.
A slow perusal of my body indicates that most of it is bandaged. Using my left hand, I pull back the sheet and sigh in relief. Both legs are still there.
“You have Larisa to thank for that,” Saint says, reading my thoughts. “She saved your life.”
“No doubt,” I hoarsely reply as I reach for the glass of water. Once I drain it, I wipe my dry lips with the back of my hand. “How many days have I been out?”
“Three.”
Cursing under my breath, I attempt to swing my legs off the bed as I cannot lie here like a vegetable for a second longer. But they refuse to cooperate.
“You’re on some hard-core painkillers. Give it some time.”
“That is something I do not have,” I counter angrily. “Each moment spent here is time when Ella is in harm’s way.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Saint states. “She saved your ass.”
“I know what she did,” I bite back, frustrated that I’m nothing but an invalid, unable to do anything while confined to this bed. “Have we got eyes on her?”
Pavel enters the room, looking at me with what might be called astonishment. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”
“Thanks to your mother,” I reply, shifting awkwardly to rest against the headboard. “What of Ella?”
Pavel pulls up a chair. “Nothing yet.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means. Santo won’t let her breathe without him close by.”
Well, that’s unsatisfactory. “We need inside his house. We were able to do so with Saint under the ruse of being gardeners.”
Soon realizing what I said, I give Saint an apologetic nod as that memory is one I’m sure he doesn’t wish to relive.
He remains stone-faced.
“Santo isn’t Oscar,” Pavel replies frankly. “He’s paranoid. He won’t allow anyone he doesn’t know within a mile of his residence.”
“So what do you propose?”
“You need to be invited. That’s the only way you’ll get to her.”
However, when he looks at Saint, I know there’s a catch.
“And you’ll get your chance. In six weeks’ time.”
“What’s happening in six weeks?” I ask, preparing myself for anything. But his response reveals I haven’t prepared for this.
“Frank and Ella’s wedding.”
Clearly, I’ve had a lapse in hearing because there is no way Pavel has just shared this abominable news with me. But when he doesn’t say a word, I realize I heard him just fine.
There’s nothing further to say because words mean nothing. In this circumstance, actions speak, and we need to act fast.
Refusing to accept that my legs are on hiatus, I stubbornly cup the back of my thigh and swing it over the mattress, placing my foot on the cold floor. I repeat the same with my injured leg. With both feet planted on the floorboards, I attempt to stand but topple sideways.
Flailing, I punch the mattress in frustration.
“Get back into bed,” Pavel orders, unimpressed with my efforts to stand.
“I will not,” I angrily refute, slowly pushing myself back into a sitting position. “Ella is being held prisoner. I need to get her out of there.”
Saint sighs, running a hand through his snarled hair. “She’s okay.”
“Okay? Define okay? And how would you know this?” I fire questions at him as though he knows a lot more than he’s letting on.
After digging into his pocket for his phone, he unlocks it before tossing it onto the bed. “See for yourself.”
Reaching for the cell, I look at the screen, and what I see is like a bittersweet kiss from hell.
A photo of Ella is before me, but she looks different. She looks…happy. A radiant smile graces those beautiful ruby lips, lips I kissed and cherished time and time again. Her face is glowing. It could be because her makeup complements her complexion, but it’s not that.
Her hair is twisted into an elaborate bun and secured with a jeweled clip. Wearing a blue cocktail gown, she looks absolutely stunning.
Clenching the cell in my hand, I focus my attention on the man whose arm she’s on—Frank Macrillo. He wears a tuxedo and a smug grin as he bends low, no doubt whispering sweet nothings in her ear.