Beautiful Beast - Page 102

“Vasya, baby . . . He’s going to pull through.” He tries to take my hand again but I slap it away.

“You sent Uncle Sergei to kill the man I love,” I snap, barely keeping the tears from spilling over. “In your sick, maniacal need to keep me from harm, you inflicted the worst possible pain on me. I hate you. God, I hate you so much.”

“Please, Vasya . . .”

“Roman,” my mom says from the seat next to me. “Go sit in the back.”

“But . . .”

“Now, kotik,” she growls and wraps her arm around me. “What did Rafael’s brother say?”

“He’s still in surgery. His second one. Surgeons had to go back in to stop the internal bleeding. That’s not even the worst of it.” Gulping for breath, I try to get the next words out. “He flatlined on arrival, and they had to resuscitate him.” I press the heels of my palms over my eyes.

It’s been hours since I’ve been able to draw a full breath. Quick, shallow intakes of air are all I can manage to get past the knot that’s formed in my throat. The survival rate for a gunshot wound to the chest is low, especially from a high-powered weapon and at close range. And knowing my uncle, he probably used one of his big-ass guns.

Mom squeezes my hand. “He’s going to be fine, Vasilisa. I promise you. He’s going to be fine.”

The plane tilts. My ears are ringing but not because we’re landing. There’s a scream that’s been building inside me, pushing on my lungs and mind, ready to burst free. I want to let it out, but I’m afraid if I do, I won’t be able to stop.

There is a slight bump when the wheels hit the ground. I’m out of my seat and running for the door even before we stop moving. It took hours to find a jet that could fly us to Sicily on short notice, and I’m not losing another minute to get to my man.

The flight attendant sprints before me, blocking my way to the door. Protests, likely, leave her mouth, but they sound like nothing more than mumbling to me.

“Move!” I snarl and try to get past her, but two strong arms wrap around me from behind.

“Vasilisa . . .” My father’s voice next to my ear. “Please.”

“Let me go.” I try to wriggle free. “Don’t ever fucking touch me! I can’t even stand the sight of you!”

He keeps speaking, words that are meant to soothe me, but nothing penetrates my brain. All my focus is on the aircraft door a few feet away. The minutes it takes for the plane to taxi over to the tarmac feel like years of my life. When the door finally opens, I rush through it and down the steps.

Uncle Sergei is standing by a parked car, pulled up to the edge of the runway. He’s still dressed in his regular tactical outfit, his usual attire when he’s hunting someone down for Bratva. I can’t bear to look at him, either.

“Take me to him,” I say as I pass by my uncle, heading toward the passenger-side door.

“Let’s wait for—”

“Take me to him!” I roar. “Now!”

Uncle Sergei throws a look over his shoulder, toward the plane where my mom and dad are just descending the stairs. I don’t really expect him to move from his spot since his loyalty is only to the pakhan, but he nods and gets behind the wheel.

The car surges forward. I clasp my hands in my lap, frantically twisting the plain silver ring around my finger.

* * *

“I apologize.” The nurse at the information desk shakes her head. “But as I’ve already told you, I can’t disclose patient information to anyone other than immediate family members.”

“Please,” I beg, squeezing the white counter before me. “Just tell me if he’s alive.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

I press my hands to my mouth. That scream in my throat is ready to explode, the pressure so great it’s pounding in my temples. My lungs must’ve shrunk because I can’t seem to get enough air.

I turn around, looking at the multitude of hallways and closed doors. Rafael is alive. I won’t accept any other possibility. He’s somewhere out there, and I’m going to find him, even if I have to fight my way past every damn member of the hospital’s security personnel.

My eyes fall on the figure of a man in jeans and a bright-yellow T-shirt, sitting hunched over in a chair halfway down the hall to the left. It’s Guido. I run toward him at breakneck speed. The bastard didn’t take any of my calls for the past hour, and I’ve called him at least fifty times.

“How is he?” I whisper. “The staff won’t tell me anything.”