by Sofia Tate
But the only voice I want to hear now is Allegra’s, and she’s yelling my name, holding my hand and pressing on my open wound, looking into my eyes, telling me to stay with her…and I want to…God, I want to…but my eyes are closing…The ache is too much.
“Can you hear me, Davison?” she shouts. “Don’t you fucking leave me! I love you!”
“Love you, baby…” I whisper before everything goes dark.
Chapter Twenty-One
Allegra
The irony of where I’m sitting now is a joke. A very bitter, evil, cruel joke.
I’m in a private waiting room on the surgical floor of NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital, but at their downtown location in Lower Manhattan.
It was only a few months ago when I was a patient at the one on the Upper East Side after I’d fallen down the stairs at Davison’s parents’ house during the benefit for the conservatory. And now, Davison is the patient, being operated on to remove the bullet lodged inside his left shoulder.
If I dared to laugh from the irony, it wouldn’t be a funny ha-ha type of laugh, but more of an Are you fucking kidding me? one, taking the Lord’s name in vain in a continuous rant.
Holding one of Mrs. Berkeley’s hands, I stare down at the crumpled towelette gripped in my other one. One of the nurses gave it to me to wipe off Davison’s blood, but most of it is still under my fingernails, dark and dried. I smile slightly, imagining it as a twisted metaphor for him and how he’s gotten under my skin.
When I look over at Davison’s mother, our appearances match in an absurd, macabre fashion. Our knees and hands both have scrapes on them from when we were pushed down to the concrete, all of which were tended to by the same nurse who gave me the antiseptic wipe. The clothes we’re wearing are torn, with the tips of our shoes scuffed. We sit quietly, not saying a word, undoubtedly doing the same thing—praying for our men to make it through their surgeries.
The only sound in the room is the voice of Leonard Preston, who’s been on his phone non-stop since we were ushered in here a few hours ago. And I’m actually grateful for it because silence would be too oppressive.
But I can’t stop the movie in my head that’s playing on a continuous loop—
I hit the pavement with a hard thud. Davison’s solid, muscled body protects me like a shield of armor when suddenly he screams in my ear and his body goes limp.
“Davison, what is it? Talk to me!”
Someone is pulling him off me, and when I sit up, I see his left shoulder covered in blood, his face and lips gone pale.
“Oh my God! Davison!” I scream.
I crawl over to him, turning his head to me. His eyes are fluttering and unfocused.
“Davison! Stay with me!” I beg. I hold one of his hands, using the other to put pressure on his shoulder. “Can you hear me? Don’t you fucking leave me!”
I know policemen are scurrying around, guns drawn, scouring rooftops, yelling instructions to one another, but I’m not giving them my full attention because the man I love is lying on cold pavement, bleeding out from a gunshot wound.
I release his hand to use both of mine to bear down on his wound because his blood is now gushing out, and until EMS gets here, I’m not letting go.
“I love you!” I shout, an unspoken plea for him not to close his eyes.
Suddenly, I hear him whisper, “Love you, baby,” and when I glance over at him, his eyes are closing.
I gasp in shock, my heart plummeting like a boulder into my torso, and my chest fills with the purest form of fear, even worse than what I experienced when that scum Carlo Morandi kidnapped me. A million times worse.
I grip Davison’s beautiful face with my hands, covered in his blood, shaking it slightly, willing him to open his emerald eyes.
“Open your eyes, Davison!” I beg. “Please!”
A large hand settles on my shoulder. “Ma’am, step aside, please. We’ve got it.”
When I turn around, two paramedics are setting their equipment on the ground, ready to help Davison.
I sit back, watching the two men in EMS uniforms work on Davison, unable to move, hoping to hear his deep voice again.
“Miss Orsini?”
I look up and see Mr. Preston hovering over me. “Are you all right?”
I’m so tempted to snap at him, What do you think? I’m not the one with a bullet in my shoulder, idiot! But I simply reply, “Yes, I’m fine,” not taking my eyes from Davison.
“Mrs. Berkeley went in the ambulance with her husband. You can come with me in my car.”
“No, I’m going with Davison,” I reply firmly.
“I don’t think—”
“I’m going with him!” I shout back, watching as Davison is lifted onto the stretcher.
“That’s fine,” I hear him answer me. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
I jump to my feet, grabbing my purse, following the paramedics wheeling Davison to the waiting ambulance. I wait until he’s hauled inside, then jump in right behind him.
We take off, sirens wailing. I sit back in a corner, staying out of the way so the paramedics can work on Davison and keep him alive.
I’m going to ask, but I’m so afraid of the answer.
“Is he going to be okay?”
“We’re doing everything we can, ma’am,” one of them replies, which sounds like a standard, noncommittal answer to me.
I clasp my hands together, taking deep breaths and not allowing my gaze to stray from Davison. I take in his strong jaw, the lush shape of his lips, the silky strands of his dark hair. I can’t reach out to hold his hand, with one of the paramedics blocking my path.
I repeat the same thing internally: Hang on, Davison. Don’t leave me. I need you. I love you.
My prayer is interrupted by the ambulance coming to a sudden stop. The doors are thrown open. The gurney that has the love of my life strapped to it is unlocked and pulled out. I rush out, running right on the heels of the medical team that’s wheeling him toward an elevator.
A hand grabs my arm. “Come with me, Miss Orsini.” A woman in a red suit with an ID badge pinned to her jacket identifying her as JULIA KENYON–ADMINISTRATION is standing next to me, her face warm and comforting. “I’ll take you to the surgical floor. Mrs. Berkeley is already there.”
Riding up in the elevator, she does all of the talking. “I’ve secured a private waiting room for you and Mrs. Berkeley in light of the situation…”
She keeps on talking, but it’s all white noise to me. I just want to see Davison.
When I walk through the door of the waiting room, Mrs. Berkeley rises from her chair, looks at my face, and bursts into tears. I rush into her arms as we embrace and cry together, united in our agony and fear.
The sound of the door opening snaps my mind back to the present. Two tall, balding men in nondescript suits walk in, revealing police badges from their breast pockets.
“Mrs. Berkeley? I’m Detective Wallace, and this is my partner, Detective McDougal. We need to ask you about the shootings.”
Preston steps forward. “Gentlemen, I’m Leonard Preston, the Berkeley family attorney. This is a very difficult time. Can’t this wait?”
“We just have a few routine questions, sir. Can you quickly tell us what happened?”
Davison’s mother nods and clears her throat. “We were all walking toward the building when someone shot my husband from the back. Then Leonard pushed me to the ground and I saw my son do the same to Allegra. And then he was shot. Does that answer your question?”
“Why were you going to the federal building?”
“That is a personal matter between my client and the authorities,” Preston replies, putting a stop authoritatively to that line of questioning.
I need to know something. “Have you caught the shooter?”
The two cops shift their gazes at me. “And you are?” one of them asks.
“She is Allegra Orsini, my son’s girlfriend, and I’d like to know the answer to that as well,” Mrs. B
erkeley demands.
“Not yet, ma’am. We’re reviewing the footage from the CCTV cameras now,” Detective McDougal says, which doesn’t bring me any comfort. “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm your husband or son?”
“Again, Detective,” Preston interrupts, “that has to do with the federal case. If you want more information about that, you’ll have to ask them.”
Before the detectives can ask another question, a doctor dressed in green scrubs walks into the room. He is tall with salt-and-pepper hair, exuding an air of confidence. My heart leaps at the sight of him because he doesn’t appear stressed or overwhelmed, all of which I hope are positive signs.
Davison’s mother and I jump from our chairs at the same time, gripping our hands tightly.
“Excuse me, I’m Dr. Bradford Chapin, chief of surgery. Mrs. Berkeley?” he asks.
“I’m Mona Cabot Berkeley,” she declares. “How are my husband and son?”
“They’re both fine…”
We both start to cry from relief at the sound of those three words.
“We removed the bullet from your son’s shoulder. He suffered no major internal injuries.”
“Thank God,” I whisper.
“Your husband’s case was trickier because of the location of the bullet around his intestinal system, but I managed to get it out without causing any further damage. He’s very lucky that his spine wasn’t affected.”
Mrs. Berkeley nods her head in understanding. “When can we see them?”
“They’re in recovery now,” Dr. Chapin replies. “Only one person per patient. Family only.”
The next words out of her mouth both stun and warm me at the sound of them. “Allegra is family,” she informs him. “Take us to them.”
“Of course, Mrs. Berkeley. This way,” he says, holding the door open for us.
With our hands still clamped together, we follow Dr. Chapin down the hallway. “Allegra, you go to Davison. I’ll be with Hart.”
“Okay,” I barely manage.
The doctor leads us to a room where a policeman is standing guard. He pushes the door open for us. A curtain is pulled to separate the two beds in the room. I look over at Mr. Berkeley, pale and silent in his bed.
Together, Davison’s mother and I stop to take in his appearance. My pulse starts to race, anxious to see Davison, worried about what he’ll look like. She tugs on my hand, pulling me forward. We come around the curtain.
I gasp at the sight of Davison, surrounded by beeping machines and tubes hanging from his arms. His face is pale, his beautiful green eyes shut. His left shoulder is covered in white gauze and bandages.
I watch as his mother walks up to him and kisses him on the forehead. She pulls up a chair to his bedside, close enough so I can hold his hand. “Come and sit down, dear. I’ll be with Hart.”
She gives me one last hug before she disappears behind the curtain. I slowly make my way to the chair and settle in. I take his strong hand in mine, kissing his knuckles, stroking it against my cheek.
I need him to know I’m here. Still holding his hand, I stand up and lean closer to him so I can talk into his ear.
“Hi, Harvard. It’s me. Allegra. I’m here. And you’re going to be okay. Just open your eyes as soon as you can because I want you back with me, teasing me and laughing with me and driving me crazy. I love you, Davison. Just open your eyes.”
I shut my eyes, pressing his hand to my lips.
Fuck, Davison. Just open them, okay? Please. I can’t lose you now.
* * *
Davison
Coconut.
I smell coconut.
Allegra.
I need to see her.
I pry my eyes open, rewarded by the sight of her standing over me, her dark brown eyes locked on mine, but they’re reddened, breaking my heart when I see them in that state. But then I’m rewarded when a huge smile overtakes her glorious face when she sees I’m awake.
“Oh my God! Davison! Thank God!” she cries out, tears flowing down her soft cheeks. She kisses my hand, holding it to her face.
I test out my voice to see if it’s working. “Allegra,” I manage, but very roughly.
She starts to cry even harder, leaning in to kiss my face over and over. I try to reciprocate, but I start coughing persistently. “Water.”
“Of course. Just a second.”
She reaches for a pitcher on the bedside table, pouring water into the cup sitting next to it, shoving a straw in before she holds it up to my mouth. She pokes the straw gently between my lips. I suck on it, the cool liquid running down my dry throat, hydrating my parched mouth.
I finish every last drop of the water, the straw sucking the bottom of the cup.
“More?”
I hand the cup back to her. “I’m good, baby.”
With her back to me, I hear her sniffle as she puts the cup back on the table.
God, I love her.
I’m not a religious man, but I’m so grateful to whatever higher power that decided I was worthy enough to stay on this mortal coil and live the rest of my life with this beautiful, selfless woman.
“Hey, get over here, Venus,” I order her, my voice sounding stronger now.
When Allegra turns around, she’s busy trying to wipe away the fresh tears that are forming in her eyes.
I pat the space next to me on the bed. She grins and steps over to me, sitting down by my side.
I take her hand and squeeze it hard to reassure her. “I’m here and I’m okay, so stop with the waterworks, got it?”
She laughs sweetly, a sound I thought I’d never hear again. “I’m sorry. Hearing you call me ‘baby’ and ‘Venus’ again and bossing me around…it just…it’s music to my fucking ears, okay?”
“Ah, now, that’s music to my ears, hearing that filthy word coming from your luscious mouth.”
We stare at each other for a long minute, and then my mind starts recalling everything. “How is my father?”
“He’s fine. He’s actually lying on a bed right behind that curtain,” she informs me, gesturing to her right.
Wasn’t expecting that. “Really? Do we know yet who shot us?”
“No, Harvard, not yet.”
I smile at the sound of her endearing nickname for me, which I never get tired of hearing. Suddenly, I yawn, fatigue creeping in.
“I’m falling asleep, baby. You should go get some rest.”
She sighs resignedly. “Okay, I’ll stay until you fall asleep. But I’ll kiss you before I go.”
“Oh yes, I absolutely insist,” I smirk.
She places her soft lips on mine, plunging her tongue into my mouth. We don’t rush, savoring the familiar taste of each other.
When she pulls back, she gives me one last quick kiss. “I love you, Davison. I’ll be back soon.”
I caress her cheek with my index finger. “I love you too, Allegra.”
As I close my eyes, I can hear her humming in my ear, then singing the lyrics to “The Sweetest Taboo,” one of the Sade songs that she put on my iPod before she left for Italy. Her angelic voice lulls me to sleep contentedly, knowing I’m still alive and that my Allegra is with me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Allegra
The next morning when I walk into Davison’s hospital room, his father’s bed is empty. I hear two male voices talking behind the curtain. When I step around it, the same detectives who questioned his mother and me yesterday are doing the same to Davison.
I look at him, and I know his joyous smile mirrors the one that I’m wearing now on my face. His emerald eyes light up at my appearance, and his face looks less pale than last night.
Dressed in a beige hospital gown, with his gorgeous face full of scruff, I’m convinced he can make anything look sexy as hell on him.
“Gentlemen, we’re going to have to end your questions for now because I have something more important to do at this moment,” he informs them. “I need to kiss my girlfriend.”
I blush
slightly at his direct words. Without having to say anything more, I walk up to him and kiss him soundly on the mouth. I can hear the detectives coughing and tittering awkwardly¸ but we honestly couldn’t care less. Davison was almost taken away from me, and if our public display of affection bothers someone, so be it.
“Yes, umm, of course, Mr. Berkeley. We’ll be in touch,” one of the men announces.
He pulls back from me. “Thank you, detectives. Good day,” he tells them, not removing his eyes from mine.
“Morning, baby.” He strokes my face with the pads of his thumbs.
“Good morning, Harvard. Did they have anything new to report?”
“Yeah, they got footage of the shooter off the security cameras. He’s the same guy who confronted me outside my building. Apparently, he’s a gun for hire. I’m guessing my father’s partners in Chicago hired him to kill my father before he could turn himself in.”
“But why would they try to hurt you?”
“Who knows. It’s just a matter of time before they find him.”
I sit down in the chair next to his bed. “Thank God for that.”
Davison’s eyebrows furrow confusedly. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”
“What?”
“Come closer.”
I pull the chair right up to his bed.
He shakes his head. “Closer.”
I roll my eyes and sit down on the open space next to him on the mattress.
I laugh when he opens up the space next to his right arm, indicating what he really wants me to do. “I’m the patient. You have to see to my needs, Nurse Orsini.”
I kick off my sandals and curl in beside him. He instantly wraps his arm around my waist. “Ah, much better,” he sighs, kissing my hair.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.