Twisted Fate: A Forbidden Romance

by Ella James

  We stop at the valet counter, exchanging little smiles, wearing our scarves and hats, waiting—until I feel like the people working here are clearly on a break or something.

  “There’s another podium outside,” he says. “Let’s check that.”

  We walk out the building’s front doors, and his fingers briefly catch mine. I watch him frown when we find the valet podium out here is also empty. Then a young guy in a button-up and dress pants stands up; I guess he was crouched behind the podium.

  “Hello there.”

  Luca hands him our ticket. The guy frowns, looking at his ledger. He reaches behind the podium and brings out Luca’s key. Then he frowns again. “Sorry, this isn’t the right book.” He shakes his head. “I’ll just need to go inside for one moment, find out where we’ve got you parked.”

  Luca holds his hand out. “I’ll take the key, no problem. We’ll walk down and look.”

  He arches a brow at me, and I know what he means: it’s not a great idea for the two of us to stand in front of Dani’s building together.

  The guy tells us where he thinks the car is—two floors down—and we head into the stairwell. Luca’s hand envelops mine, squeezing as we head into the belly of the beast.

  “I hate these things,” I tell him.

  His thumb rubs the top of my hand. “Make you claustrophobic?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. I get uptight. Feel trapped.”

  “I’m sorry, la mia rosa.” He wraps an arm around my waist. “I’ve got you, though. And you wouldn’t believe what kind of testing these things go through, to make sure the walls are strong enough and all that.”

  I’m sad when he lets go of my hand and we step out into the G2 level. We walk slowly around, eyes peeled for Luca’s car. I’m thinking about how grateful I am for him—grateful that he cares about my job and doesn’t want to put me at risk—when a man dressed in black steps out from behind one of the cars, stopping right in front of us.

  “The traitor and his cunt!”

  My eyes search for a face, and I feel a wash of horror when I can’t find one; he’s wearing a hood. I’m frozen in place when Luca shoves me back. His arms push me so hard I almost fall. Then the hooded man is attacking him. Luca reaches into his coat, but then he staggers back, arms pinwheeling.

  He hits the ground hard, landing with a kind of limpness that makes me feel sick. I can’t even rush to his side before the man in is on him. I can’t see what’s going on—it’s all dark arms—but I hear Luca grunt, and then he’s up; Luca shoves the guy, and after that, they’re grappling with each other.

  Luca shouts, “RUN!”—but I’m frozen. I’m partly hidden behind an SUV, watching, aghast, as Luca pins the guy down and the guy tosses him off. Now he’s flat on his back and the man’s leaning down over him. At that second, there’s a deafening BOOM!

  The masked man flies back, landing sprawled on his side.

  Luca’s on his back, and then he’s rolling over onto his side. Oh my God, the dark pool around him—I think that’s blood!

  I rush over, drop down, and grab his shoulders. “Luca! Are you okay?”

  He groans, harsh and loud, his face twisting in agony. His hand is fumbling at his chest. His face is colorless, his features slack just like he’s dying.

  “Oh my God.” I’m sobbing as I hold his face in my hands. “Luca, I need you to look at me!” He lifts his eyelids, but his eyes are glazed. He’s breathing hard now, groaning as he holds his shoulder.

  “Did you get shot?”

  “Knife,” he wheezes.

  “Oh my God! I’m calling 9-1-1!” My hand is on his forehead as my other fumbles with my phone. I drop it twice before I get a person on the line. I’m crying so hard she can barely understand me, so I have to say it twice.

  “Somebody stabbed my boyfriend!”

  Luca’s struggling to keep his eyes open; they’re clinging to my face. I’m holding his cheek as I sob my way through the phone call with the dispatcher. She tells me to put pressure on his wounds, and I hang up, wanting to focus on that.

  His face is bone white, and his entire body’s shaking. I’m pretending the hot liquid seeping through my pants is something else. I stroke his hair back off his damp forehead and a strangled moan escapes him.

  His eyes shut as I peel his jacket back, horrified to find that blood is everywhere. His lips tremble, and he makes a small sound like a whimper, followed by a groan. His full-body shaking picks up as he says, “I…love you…rosa. And I…love…our baby.”

  His teeth start to chatter, and there’s blood on his mouth. I wonder if I might pass out as I say, “I love you more, but you’re okay.” I get onto my knees so I can lean over him more, so he can see me better. “They’re going to be here in a second, and the ambulance will help you.”

  “Press…on…my chest.” He sounds like he’s choking.

  “Oh shit, that’s right!”

  I pull off my coat, ball it up, and press it to his chest. I’m sobbing as his half-shut eyes try to hold mine.

  “I’ll…find you…” His eyelids drop shut. “Promise.”

  Then he’s still. I check frantically for a pulse at his throat, feeling like I might faint with relief when I locate one.

  “I love you. Please stay with me. I can’t do this without you!”

  That’s the moment that the ambulance arrives. I jump up, waving it down. After its wheels stop rolling, time seems to lunge forward, moving faster and more frantic. I watch numbly as they put Luca on a stretcher—his blood stains the white sheet. As they lift him through the doors, I run behind them. “You can’t leave me! I’m his wife!”

  Someone in a blue suit helps me into a small, plastic seat in the back corner of the ambulance, telling me if I’m not quiet, it will be bad for my husband. I nod; I don’t think I could speak if I wanted to. I watch in shock as Luca’s clothes are ripped off. He’s so pale and there is so much blood. I’m shaking so hard that I worry for the baby.

  His head lolls as they tape wires and stickers onto him, two people working on him at the same time, shouting things I can’t decipher.

  “I love you!”

  His lashes flutter. He looks pained, and then I can’t see him for the paramedics’ uniform-clad bodies.

  “I don’t like how low this is.”

  “We’re ninety-six point two.”

  “BP eighty over fifty.”

  One of the men looks at me. “Do you know his blood type?”

  “No. I’m so sorry,” I sob.

  The other one is holding what looks like a blanket to his chest.

  “Start fluids, I’ll give a vasopressor. If that doesn’t work and we have time, we could do some O-neg.”

  One of them puts a plastic mask over his gray face. Tears are streaming down my cheeks.

  “Let’s lift legs. Three…two…one.”

  His eyelids flutter as someone puts pillows under his legs. His face twists as one of them does something to his chest.

  “It’s okay, Luca. I’m here,” I call.

  “Rosa?”

  “I’m right here.” I try to lean closer so maybe he can see me.

  “I don’t like…blood,” he groans. Then he falls still again, as if he’s passed out.

  The paramedics move so fast; it’s like a symphony sans music. I can’t track what they’re doing or make out what they’re saying.

  “Is he okay?” I hear myself shout as the ambulance swerves sharply left.

  “We’re doing everything we can,” one man says tersely. My stomach heaves so hard, I’m scared I might get sick. Then the ambulance stops hard, as someone speaks over what must be a walkie talkie.

  “Ma’am, you stay put until we get out!”

  Seconds later, he’s just gone. A woman in green scrubs is walking me in through some automatic glass doors.

  “What’s your name?” the lady at the ER’s front desk asks me.

  “Sarah…Galante. My husband just came in,” I sob, surprised how badly I’m lo
sing it here in front of a whole room of strangers. “Please help me! I have to be with him!”

  “His name?”

  “Luca Galante.” I try to say that part quietly.

  “One moment.”

  She steps away from the desk, makes a call on a black phone that’s mounted on a cement block wall, and then, after a few quiet nods, she straightens, hangs the phone up, and waves me back. “Your husband’s headed into surgery. Follow me right down this hall, please.”

  A brown-haired nurse briefs me. She says he was stabbed three times, and one time, the blade’s tip was in a “bad spot.” He lost a lot of blood, but he’s been given more, like as a transfusion. One of the stab wounds was right where he has a metal plate screwed onto his collarbone.

  “Surgery will include a cardio-thoracic surgeon and someone from orthopedics.”

  “Is he going to be okay?” Tears are pouring down my cheeks.

  “We’re not in the business of giving reassurances, but he’s in good hands. He’s young and he got here quickly. Did you call, when it happened?”

  I nod, wiping my eyes.

  I’m about to ask if I did something wrong when she tells me, “You did a good job.” She pats my shoulder. “I’ll take you to the little waiting room that’s right beside our cardiac ICU. Usually, no one else is there.”

  “Is he going to be in the ICU?”

  “We don’t know, but if he is, then you’ll be ready,” she says in a reassuring tone.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  I don’t know why it pops out. She pats my back as we walk. “Well, you’re going to be a very capable mother. You did great getting your husband here.”

  When she leaves me in the waiting room, I sob into my hands—because he’s not my husband at all, and now I may never know what it’s like to be his wife.

  34

  Elise

  I sit in that awful little room for almost three hours before a woman in scrubs steps in through a steel door. She’s clapping her hands lightly, as if to dry them. When she sees me, her dark eyebrows arch. “Mrs. Galante?”

  I blink and make myself nod. I stand as she steps closer, and she reaches out to shake my hand.

  “I’m Dr. Lin, one of your husband’s surgeons today.” There’s a small and horrifying pause before she says, “He made it through the surgery. He’s stable, and he’ll be moved to ICU in just a little while.”

  Tears spill down my cheeks; I don’t know how I have more, but they just keep coming.

  “Your husband did beautifully. Orthopedics was in briefly, removing a device from hios clavicle. That’s just fine, because it did its job a long time ago. The fact that he had it meant the blade didn’t go deeper. It basically ricocheted off the metal.” She lifts her brows, looking pleased with this fact. “We had a trauma surgeon, Dr. Johnson, repairing a spot on his lower left diaphragm. The blade pierced several inches deep there, but your husband was very lucky. It nicked his stomach, but we got that repaired.

  “The most significant of the three wounds was near his sternum.” She points to her chest. “The blade punctured the right atrium of his heart. It was a tiny puncture, but the heart’s kind of important”—she trills a little laugh—“so the puncture was an issue. It wasn’t a difficult repair, though. With assistance from imaging, I was able to take a minimally invasive approach, something that’s not always possible in a trauma case. So we were pleased with that outcome.”

  She nods once. “Everything looked good when we closed. If all goes well, he should be able to leave the ICU at some point in the next two to three days. You’re looking at maybe another few days in a floor room before discharge.”

  I nod, wiping my eyes.

  She gives me a polite, reassuring smile. “Someone will come out and let you know when you can see him. We like to keep our patients in the OR area for recovery and coming off the ventilator when the heart-lung bypass has been used. When they move him to the ICU, he’ll have his breathing tube removed…well, probably”—she makes a face—“but he’ll still be sedated. Surgery was completed in a little over two hours; hopefully you saw the updates come through on the screen for the patient with your husband’s initials.”

  She gestures to a wall-mounted flat screen behind her, where I did indeed watch his progress. “We’ll get him extubated shortly. In the meantime, we’ve heard there’s a detective coming in to discuss what happened. If you don’t want to do that right now, you can tell them to call or come back later.”

  “Thank you.” I wipe my eyes. “Thanks for what you did.” My voice shakes, and I feel embarrassed to be breaking down in front of a stranger.

  “Of course. I’m sorry for what happened to your husband.”

  She leaves, and I break down and send a text to Dani, who is stunned and upset and wants to come be with me…but I tell her to wait. As I’m texting her, a stocky, blond police officer comes through the door from the hallway, and I feel like I’m going to pass out from the terror of my high-stakes lies.

  “Mrs. Galante?” the man asks, frowning slightly.

  I nod, feeling all the blood drain from my face.

  “I’m here to talk to you about your husband’s attack.” His eyes narrow, and I nod, and then wipe my eyes for effect. “I’m so sorry,” I say in my most fragile tone. “I don’t think now’s a good time.” I let a tear fall down my cheek, then cover my face with my hands. “Can you come back?”

  “I just need a few things answered. There was a witness at the scene, an elderly man who was upset he couldn’t get to you. He was sitting in his car with his leg in a boot—from a fracture—waiting on his wife to get something from their unit in the building. We know you and your husband were attacked. The other party is deceased. We have some further questions. It will only take a few minutes.”

  “I know, but…I don’t think I can talk right now.” Thank you, waterworks.

  He frowns at his watch.

  “I’m going to get to see him in a minute. What about tomorrow? Please? I want to be praying for my husband right now.”

  That seals the deal. The officer leaves, promising to return tomorrow.

  I text Dani, even though I want to call; I’m afraid of a camera in the room recording me.

  I’m so scared, Dani. I hate lying.

  I’m so sorry, fishy! This is the worst thing at the worst time. I’m all ready, even got my bag packed for the night. I can come up now? I won’t get in your way.

  And risk yourself, too? How would this look for you with your job?

  Maybe you should leave, she texts. I know that’s awful, but you might want to protect yourself. He’s going to be sleeping anyway, and I’m sure he’d want what’s best for you.

  There’s NO way.

  I see her typing for a while before she sends another text: I understand.

  They said they did the minimally invasive kind of surgery, but I don’t want him to be in pain. I send a crying emoji that doesn’t even begin to cover it, and Dani sends three back.

  When I had surgery on my elbow entrapment, they gave me THE best drugs. Remember? she asks.

  You were talking about ‘vintage Harrison Ford’ and how you wanted to f--- him.

  I smile at the memory, which was likely Dani’s intention.

  Vintage Harrison is yum, she says. Don’t even try to say I’m wrong about that.

  I’m scared someone in the ICU will know my face from TV, I text Dani.

  Then you need to change your face, and change your hair. Go to the gift shop and get a hat or something. I’m not kidding. I do that on flights, remember, and it always does the job.

  Maybe I really should.

  I pull a note pad from my purse and scribble: Gone to the lobby. Back in 15. Please call if it’s time to go in and see Mr. Galante.

  I leave my number. Then I hurry to the lobby. There’s a large gift shop, which has all sorts of things. I buy a Yankees cap and two thick, fabric headbands, which should cover up a lot of my hair. On a whim, I grab Tic
Tacs in every flavor—wow, there are a lot now!—and some lemon candies just in case he wants those sometime.

  I feel queasy as I ride the elevator back up, worried they’ll have come for me when I was gone. Worried someone will realize who Luca is, or who I am, and will call my blatant lies. Worried about what will happen if everybody finds out that the D.A. is in love with the mob don. I don’t like to label us that way, though, so I try to shove those thoughts aside.

  I return to my drab waiting room to find the sticky note right where I left it.

  What kind of waiting room is it, Dani asks.

  I tell her without thinking of the consequences, which turns out to be a fabulous mistake, because an hour later, someone in a red hospital T-shirt pops into the room with a giant paper sack.

  “Delivery for Mrs. G?”

  I look at the bag’s logo—Kulap Thai—and want to weep with gratitude. “Thank you so much!”

  I’m so hungry, I stuff my face before texting Dani. Then I send her a selfie featuring me with my smeared mascara and my ball cap.

  Tuck your hair up in there, she says. And leave the mascara. You don’t look the same with so much black eye makeup.

  Thank you so much! You’re the best friend EVER.

  You’re so welcome. Don’t you want some company up there yet? Also, can I tell Ree?

  Um, if you want her to stroke out, I guess you can. She would DIE, Dani. She would be beside Luca in the ICU!

  But can I tell her?

  Why do you want to? I frown down at my phone.

  So I can have moral support!!

  I send an eyeroll emoji. I guess you can.

  I don’t think Ree will be upset with me or anything like that. She and Dani are amazing friends. She will be really worried, though.

  A minute later, I get a new text from Dani. I just told her. She’s not mad. She took it fine.

  LOL- yeah?

  My eyes tear up at that, because that’s something Luca says a lot: “Yeah?”