I was screaming.
They were dragging me away from him and I couldn’t stop screaming. I clawed and dove, struggled as hard as I could to get back to him, my entire world laying there on the ground, his blood seeping out onto the cement.
No, this isn’t happening. They can’t take him from me.
“Fausto!” I cried. And cried and cried, his name a refrain on my lips, my only thought to be with him. “No, please! I have to be there!”
They didn’t listen. Three soldiers packed me into the Range Rover and shouted at me to stay low. I was hysterical, crying and shaking. Marco was with Fausto, pressing on his side, and my husband—oh, God. His eyes were closed and he was as pale as death. No, please. Don’t take him from me.
Marco began giving orders and they lifted Fausto up quickly, carrying him to my car. I moved over, making as much room as possible. Nesto jumped behind the wheel, Giulio in the passenger seat, as the men put Fausto into the back seat with me. I grabbed under his shoulders and pulled with all my might to help get him into the car, settling his head on my lap, and Marco climbed into the back, too.
“Vai, vai!” Marco punched the back of the driver’s seat as if to hurry Nesto.
The car sped off, but I couldn’t pay attention to anything but my man’s face. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and I could barely breathe through my sobs. He could not die. Not here, not now.
I stroked my husband’s forehead and held him. He was so still, his chest barely moving. His olive skin was dull, like someone had unplugged the light inside him. “Paparino,” I whispered. “You can’t leave me.”
“Francesca,” Marco barked. “I need your help.”
I sucked in a deep breath. “Tell me what to do.”
“I need you to keep pressure on his wound while I work.”
I gently laid Fausto’s head on the seat and joined Marco in the footwell. I reached for Fausto’s middle and put my hands on the bloody towels covering the wound. There was so much blood. Fausto’s blood. It seeped through the fabric and onto my hands. My arms shook as I pressed, hoping I could stem the flow of red.
“Just keep firm, even pressure on him, Frankie. I won’t know what we’re dealing with until I see the wound.” Marco said as he pulled a case from under the front seat.
Fausto groaned and I started to ease off. “Ignore him,” Marco snapped. “It’s better that he lives. Keep doing what you’re doing.”
Oh, Jesus. I didn’t move, just kept pressing down on the bloody towels. Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die. It was a mantra in my head, a prayer of desperation in my darkest hour.
Now wearing surgical gloves, Marco flicked open a knife. “Here, let me in there.”
When I backed away, Marco shoved aside the bloody cloth then quickly cut through Fausto’s vest and shirt, exposing the wound. Blood ran in rivers out of my husband’s body, and I covered my mouth, trying not to howl in terror.
Marco wasn’t phased, his expression calm. He doused Fausto with water from the kit and pushed a plastic tube filled with white stuff into Fausto’s wound. Then he pushed down on a plunger and forced whatever was in the tube into Fausto.
I could see the white stuff instantly expand, the blood slowing.
“What was all that?”
“Saline to clean the area and special sponges. They expand to pack the wound and stop the bleeding.”
“How do you know about this stuff?”
He went back to the case. “I was a medic in the army.”
I felt a burst of hope. Thank God Marco was here. “Now what?”
He took out a large plastic pack, ripped it open, and placed a bandage over Fausto’s abdomen. It had a large pad and what looked like a strange plastic handle attached. “We need to wrap his middle with this. I’m going to lift him a bit. Hold this pad and push the other end of the bandage under him.”
Marco slid his arms under Fausto and lifted, and I quickly did what he described.
“Now bring the bandage up, twist it once and slide it through the plastic cleat.”
Looking closely, I realized that what I thought was a handle had a small gap and I was able to pass the bandage through it.
“Now, go the other way now. Pull firmly, not too hard, in the opposite direction. Kind of like you’re cinching up a belt.”
I understood and pulled toward me and pushed the bandage under from the front.
“Good, keep going. This is a compression bandage. It will maintain pressure. Wrap it around as many times as you can.”
When I finished, Marco rested Fausto back on the seat and took the end of the bandage from my bloody hands. He tucked two small hooks under the wrapped edges of the bandage. “That will hold it in place. You did well, Frankie. Now the hospital must do the rest. How long?” he shouted up front.
“Five minutes,” Nesto said.
Oh, God. Was that close enough? Did Fausto have that long? Tears streaming once again, I grabbed my husband’s hand, squeezing hard, trying to give him strength through my fingers.
Nesto drove wildly, cutting through traffic, while Giulio talked on the phone, barking Italian at someone. When he hung up, he said, “The hospital is ready for him.”
That made me cry harder. People died in hospitals. My mother died in a hospital.
“Get David there, too,” Marco snapped. “He’ll assess the surgical staff and whether we need to fly anyone in from Rome.”
To work on Fausto. Oh, God.
“Frankie, be strong.” Marco’s voice was quiet and reassuring. “He needs your fire right now. Your spirit, not your tears.”
I nodded. Marco was right. I couldn’t fall apart. I was married to the most dangerous man in Europe, so I had to be prepared for the blood and violence that came with it. It was just . . . .
“I cannot lose him,” I whispered. My God, we hadn’t even been married for twenty-four hours.
“You won’t. He’s tough. This is the fifth time someone has attempted to kill him. He’ll survive.”
I stared at the red coating my hands, the blood all around us. It stained the front of my dress, the leather seats. There was so much of it. Why had I insisted on coming today? This was why he was so secretive, why he stayed close to the castello. But he relented because I’d asked. Had stopped to buy me gelato because I hadn’t eaten lunch. How could I have been so selfish as to demand this trip?
My chest splintered, so full of anguish and guilt that I could barely breathe. I’d never recover if something happened to him. I wanted to fuck in the vineyards and see him hold our babies, drink wine and take showers together. I needed a lifetime of memories with him.
I needed more time.
Please don’t take him from me.
We arrived at the hospital a few minutes later, tires screeching as Nesto turned into the drive. A team of nurses and doctors awaited, an empty gurney at the ready. Terror clawed into my throat. I wasn’t ready to let him go. If those people took him away, I might never see him again. Just like Mamma.
I swallowed hard. Be strong. They will fix him. He will not die. I repeated the words over and over as they took my husband from the car, put him on the gurney and wheeled him inside the building. My feet were rooted to the ground, my eyes focused on the doors, now closed. An arm slid around my shoulders.
“Let’s go inside.” It was Giulio. He had to be hurting, too.
I flung myself into his arms, wrapping around him. “Tell me it’s going to be okay.”
He hugged me, his heat and strength surrounding me. A long moment passed before he answered, his voice raw. “I can’t. You and I, we’ve never lied to one another.”
Oh, God. I clung to him, more tears leaking from my eyes. I hadn’t known I could cry this much.
“This is my fault,” I sobbed into his shirt. “He tried to talk me out of it but I wouldn’t listen. I can’t . . .”
I can’t live with myself if something happens to him.
“We were very careful.” Giulio squeezed me hard. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
Marco eased up alongside us. “You two need to get inside. I have to go. I need to find the shooter.”
Nesto came over, his phone pressed to his ear. “Enzo’s escaped,” he told Marco. “His men attacked the castello.”
I gasped as Guilio shouted, “Figlio di cane!”
Marco dragged a hand down his face, his eyes solemn. “A distraction. Of course.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I knew it was bad.
“I’ll keep you informed of his condition,” Giulio promised Marco.
Marco put a hand on Giulio’s shoulder. “You’re in charge. Until he recovers everyone answers to you. Be ready, Giulio.”
Giulio nodded. “Grazie, Zio.”
“He’s proud of you. He knows you can handle it, okay? And make sure she eats and drinks. For the baby.”
“I will.”
Marco took Nesto and drove off, and Giulio led me into the hospital. We were waved in, immediately sent to a private waiting room. I thought there would be paperwork to fill out, but no one asked us any questions. I supposed they all knew my husband. Presenting an identification card really wasn’t necessary.
I sat next to Giulio and stared at the blood on my dress. Was this the last part of him I would have? Dried blood on some expensive fabric? I didn’t want to wash my hands. I didn’t want to change. I needed to keep him close, even if it was just his blood.
Zia soon arrived, looking a decade older than she had this morning, and she asked Giulio questions in rapid Italian but I was too out of it to follow. All I could do was clutch the bottle of water in my blood-stained hands and stare at the wall.
What was I going to do if he died? Our child would never meet its father. I would never hear Fausto call me “dolcezza” or “piccolina monella” again. No more naughty games. I would live the rest of my life without his formidable presence, an empty hole no one else could ever fill. I wouldn’t survive it.
So much blood. His skin had been so pale.
I started trembling, my teeth chattering. Suddenly, Giulio was there, throwing his suit jacket around my shoulders. He knelt in front of me, his hands stroking up and down my arms. “You’re in shock,” he said. “Take a deep breath.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t. Air wouldn’t help fix him.
“Frankie, breathe, bella. Think of your baby. Fausto’s baby. He would hate it if something happened to either of you.”
I dragged in a deep breath and Giulio encouraged me. “That’s it. Keep breathing. He’s going to be okay.”
“You said you wouldn’t lie to me.”
“That was before I thought you’d faint on me. Keep going. In and out. I’ll see if I can find a blanket.”
Then he was gone. I blinked back tears and tried to focus on my breathing as Zia sat next to me. She didn’t speak and soon Giulio came back with a hospital blanket, which he wrapped around my shoulders.
Zia motioned to Giulio and started speaking rapidly, which Giulio translated for me. “Enough, Francesca. You must be strong. You are a Ravazzani now, his queen. You cannot sit and snivel and faint like a weak little woman. Everyone will look to you, his wife, regarding his condition. If you project strength and power, everyone will be reassured—” Giulio stopped abruptly and said, “Zia, basta.”
He gestured to my hands and my dress, apparently defending me, but Zia remained firm. She told him to shut up and keep translating.
With a sigh, Giulio kept going. “You are his wife, the one who bears the future of the family inside you. He will expect you to shoulder this, whatever happens, with grace and courage. Like a Ravazzani.”
I sat straighter, knowing she was right. This was not the time to fall apart. I had to be strong. For Fausto. For our child.
“Excellent,” Zia said, slowly this time. “You show them, Francesca. Show them the Ravazzanis cannot be defeated.”
