Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
She shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Russo. You miscarried.”
I nod again, a lump lodging in my throat. The loss is devastating. A part of me already started grieving when I came to my senses on the floor in the kitchen, but I’m still not ready for the blow. I’m intimately familiar with the process of mourning. It’s going to take time. If dealing with my dad’s death taught me anything, it’s not to lock the pain up inside. I can’t harbor another storm that wreaks havoc in my chest.
“Like I told your husband,” the doctor continues, “there’s no reason why you can’t try again. None of the damage is permanent.” She pauses. “A police officer from the village came around. He asked to see you when you’re conscious.”
“I understand.”
She smiles. “I’ll have a meal sent, a little soup to start with.”
“Thank you,” I say, trying to return her smile, but the gesture doesn’t come naturally.
I must’ve dosed off again, because when I open my eyes, a bowl of soup waits on the trolley, and a man I don’t know stands next to the bed.
Alarm rushes through me. The beep on the monitor next to me speeds up with the crazy beat of my heart.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Russo,” he says. “I’m Officer Bartoli. I’m only here to ask you a few questions.”
I blow out a silent sigh. For a terrifying moment, I thought my attackers had come back to finish the job they’d started, although this man isn’t dressed in combat gear, and his head isn’t shaved.
“May I see proof of identity?” I ask.
“Of course.”
He takes a badge from his inside jacket pocket and shows it to me. He’s barely put it away when the door crashes against the wall and a tall, formidable figure fills the doorframe.
The man taking up all the space in the room is dark and handsome in a storybook way, but the darkness reaches all the way to his soul. He’s wearing jeans and a roll neck sweater under a leather jacket, the clothes hugging his powerful frame. His face is both beautiful and frightening, like that of a fallen angel. His features are harsh, the hard lines emphasizing his straight nose and strong cheekbones. A couple of days’ worth of scruff darkens his square jaw. Black, feverish eyes pierce mine.
Angelo.
Officer Bartoli turns. “Mr. Russo.”
Angelo ignores him, making his way over with long strides and taking my hand in a crushing grip. “Cara.” He kisses my palm before brushing a hand over my brow. “How are you feeling, my angel? Can I get you anything?”
“I was just about to ask her a few questions,” the officer says, adding with a slight narrowing of his eyes, “Purely routine.”
“Then I’ll call my lawyer,” Angelo says.
“Does she need a lawyer?” Officer Bartoli asks.
I place my free hand on Angelo’s arm. “It’s all right.”
Angelo clenches his jaw. “Can’t it wait?”
“The doctor said it was fine.” Officer Bartoli’s smile is patronizing. “It won’t take long.” He looks pointedly at me. “If you prefer, Mrs. Russo, your husband can wait outside.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say.
“It’s not uncustomary—” the officer starts, but I cut him short.
“I want him to stay.”
Officer Bartoli clears his throat. “Very well.” He takes his phone from his pocket and activates the screen. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
Angelo’s fingers tighten around mine.
“I was attacked in my house.”
He types something on his phone. “Can you tell me exactly what transpired?”
I swallow.
Angelo gives the detective a hard look. “Is this really necessary?”
“It’s all right,” I say again. “They broke down my door and surprised me. I tried to get away, but there were four of them.”
Angelo squeezes my hand so hard I’m worried he’ll break my bones.
“Four,” the detective says as he notes it on his phone. “Were you alone in the house?”
“Yes.” I glance at Angelo. “My husband was away on business.”
The detective follows my gaze before bending his head back over his phone. “What happened then?”
“They assaulted me. I lost consciousness. When I came to, they were gone.”
“They were gone,” he repeats, presumably noting that too. “Did you call someone for help?”
“I don’t have a phone.”
He looks up.
Angelo loosens his grip and brushes his thumb in soothing circles over my palm.
“I prefer to live without electronic devices,” I say. “I wanted a detox from computers and phones.”
“I see. Carry on. You regained consciousness, and they were gone.”
“I walked to the village and knocked on Mr. Martin’s door for help. That’s the last thing I remember.”
“At what time did the assault happen?”
“It was just after eight.”
“Can you give me a description of the men?”
“I didn’t get a good look at them. Everything happened so fast. I panicked. I ran. Fell. And then they kicked me.”
Angelo balls his hand in a fist at his side. I don’t look at him. I can’t.