Chapter 158: Rocco?

A while later, the large man returns.

Jeremiah immediately looks up when he enters.

"Fernando, what did they say?"

"They’ll be there in thirty minutes."

Jeremiah exhales sharply and rubs a hand over his face.

"Okay. Fine."

Fernando glances at him for a moment before speaking.

"I need you to be there."

Jeremiah’s head snaps towards him. "What? Why?"

"Because you’re a ball of nervous energy, and we don’t need you here right now. So go. I’ll handle things here."

Jeremiah stares at him as though he’s just suggested something ridiculous.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Very."

"Fernando, my brother is in there."

"And you’re not helping him by pacing around this hallway and looking like you’re about to tear someone’s head off."

Jeremiah opens his mouth, probably ready to argue, but Fernando doesn’t give him the chance.

"Go and handle the other matter. I’ll keep you informed."

For a few seconds, Jeremiah remains where he is. His eyes move towards the closed treatment room door.

"Fuck," he mutters.

He grabs his phone from the chair and slips it into his pocket.

"Call me if anything happens."

"I will."

Jeremiah glances at me before turning away. He looks as though he wants to say something, but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself.

Then he walks out. The sound of his footsteps gradually disappears, leaving me alone with Fernando.

"I need to wash my hands," I whisper.

Fernando turns towards me.

"Of course."

I push myself up from the chair and head for the bathroom. My legs feel strangely heavy, and I have to remind myself to keep moving.

The moment I step inside, I turn on the tap and place my hands beneath the running water.

Red...The water turns red almost immediately.

I stare at it as the blood begins washing away from my palms, flowing down the drain in thin, uneven streams. I reach for the soap and begin rubbing my hands together.

I scrub my fingers, my palms, and the spaces between them. There is blood beneath my fingernails, and I try to get rid of it with the little brush beside the sink.

I rub harder until my skin begins to sting but I keep going.

My throat tightens as I grip the edge of the sink and lower my head.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but another memory slips through.

I hate him and I hate what he did to me. I hate that he made decisions about my body without my consent. I hate that he cheated on me and expected a simple apology to fix everything.

But I don’t want him to die.

The realization hits me so suddenly that my breath catches.

Another sob escapes my throat and I cover my mouth, trying to silence it, but another follows. My shoulders begin shaking, and before I can stop myself, I sink against the bathroom counter.

I don’t want to lose him.

Not like this...i haven’t forgiven him, I haven’t forgotten anything but I don’t want to become a widow.

I don’t want to hear people refer to him in the past tense. I don’t want to imagine a world where I can no longer argue with him, where I can no longer roll my eyes at his ridiculous possessiveness or complain about the way he always seems to get under my skin.

I want him alive....Even if I’m still furious with him, especially because I’m still furious with him.

I press both hands against my face and cry harder.

For the first time since the shooting, I allow myself to feel how frightened I am.

When I finally manage to straighten up, my eyes are swollen and my cheeks are wet. I splash cold water on my face and reach for a towel.

I stare at myself in the mirror.

I look awful. My hair is dishevelled, my dress is stained with blood, and there is a faint redness around my wrists from how aggressively I scrubbed them.

I take a deep breath, then another.

I can’t fall apart completely. Not yet....i still need to know what is happening to him.

I leave the bathroom and return to the space where I had been sitting.

Fernando is still there. He looks up when I approach, his eyes briefly settling on my face.

He doesn’t ask whether I’ve been crying and I appreciate that.

I sit down, clasping my hands together in my lap.

The silence stretches. Every now and then, I hear something from behind the treatment room door. A muffled voice, the movement of equipment. Footsteps.

Each sound makes me lift my head but the door remains closed.

I glance at Fernando.

"How long has he been there?"

I know I’ve been here before him and I brought him in but I need someone else to say it to me.

Fernando checks his watch.

"A little over an hour."

An hour.

It feels like I’ve been sitting here for days.

I look down at my phone, but there are no new messages. I don’t even know who I would call.

His mother? What would I tell her? That her son had been shot because I walked into a room with a gun in my hand and accused him for cheating? That I had gone there believing he was with another woman, only for everything to turn into a nightmare?

I can’t....i can’t be the person who gives her that news.

My fingers tighten around the phone.

A few minutes later, I hear the treatment room door open.

My head snaps up.

As Rocco steps out. He removes his gloves, looking exhausted. His hair is slightly dishevelled, and there are faint creases between his brows.

I immediately stand.

"Is he okay?"

Rocco pauses and my heart begins pounding.

I look past him, trying to see inside the room, but he shifts slightly, blocking my view.

"Rocco?"

He doesn’t answer.

Something cold settles in my stomach as I take a step towards him.

"Please, just tell me he’s okay."

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he takes a slow breath.

"I’m sorry but he couldn’t make it. I tried my best."