I can’t do this.
You must.
Everything Q had done for me—to make me whole again—teetered close to cracking. My tower that I’d smashed after Tenerife shivered with its broken bricks, trying to rise from its ashes to claim me.
But I wouldn’t let it. Not this time. This time I wouldn’t be a victim. This time I would win.
Franco manoeuvred his body, hobbling to a knee. A rush of guilt swarmed at not helping him, but I stood concreted to the carpet. So many things inside. So many conflicting, terrible responses as my body and mind battled with what to do.
I’d never felt this way. This lost, angry, terrified kind of way. As a victim, the choice to fight was stripped the moment I was captured. But as the one left behind I had choices, decisions—hope.
But then fear struck, crushing that hope. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I trusted Franco to help but the window of time to get Q back was already gone? I played roulette with Q’s life depending on the decision I made.
Action.
I needed to do something.
But being a statue was all I seemed capable of as scenarios rushed through my head, all ending in horrific ways.
Chasing after Q to find a bullet lodged in his forehead in the lobby.
Not chasing after Q to find they’d sent a ransom note and it would be a simple matter of an exchange.
Chasing after Q only to watch him be tortured—all because of me.
They took him because of me.
“Oh, my God.” Why hadn’t I seen it? I was so stupid. I’d done this. I’d ruined his life. Destroyed it. Demolished it. A sob began, building in girth and volume until I knew I’d explode into pieces if I let it go.
Arms wrapped around me, jerking me close to a metallic smelling shirt and tense broken body. Franco pressed me hard against him, giving me a rock to cling to while my misery threatened to drown me.
“It’s because of me. It’s my fault!”
“Of course it’s your fault.”
My eyes popped wide. He agreed! I couldn’t do it. I curled over, nursing the ball of agony in my heart, wishing to die.
Franco gathered me closer. “It’s your fault he’s happy. It’s your fault he’s finally accepting his past and looking forward to a future he no longer has to hide from.” He winced as his body wobbled. “This would’ve happened with or without you, Tess. You’ve only seen a smidgen of men involved in this industry. But Q knows thousands. He’s personally ate with them, done deals with them. He was welcomed into a world where admission is for life and any misbehaving means death. Yes, hunting for you so recklessly sped up the realization of who Q really was, but it would’ve happened. Eventually.”
He pulled away, looking into my gritty eyes. “And when it happened, he wouldn’t be where he is today. He wouldn’t fight as hard as he will now because he has love giving him power.” His emerald eyes softened. “If they’d come for him, and you weren’t in his life he would’ve fought—of course, but ultimately, he would’ve given in. Because in some f**ked-up way he believes he deserves it.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t—”
“You know him—the parts he lets you see at least. But I’ve been with him for nine years. And believe me when I say, he’s always gone through life knowing he would die young. He never came out and said it, but he wasn’t planning for a long life, Tess. He just didn’t have the strength to keep battling whatever is inside him.”
My heart felt as if it’d been mined of all the goodness inside, leaving it riddled with holes. Only Q could patch those holes, and it didn’t matter what decision I went with because the conclusion was all the same.
I would get him back. Just like he saved me. I didn’t have the luxury of second guessing and denial. It was time to go.
Clutching my torn dress, I pulled away from Franco. He stumbled a little, drawing my eyes to his torn trousers and blood-stained shirt. “Shit, Franco. I’m so sorry.” I reached out to touch a gash on his arm only for him to flinch back.
Then I saw it.
A crimson-soaked tie wrapped around his thumb. Or rather…lack of one.
My eyes darted to his, filling with liquid. “What—what did they do?”
He shrugged. “It’s the only access to your room. Key-coded fingerprints. I refused when they asked. Guess they didn’t like that.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the severed appendage.
Bile swashed up my gullet and into my mouth.
I ran.
Skidding into the bathroom, I threw the toilet seat up and purged my system of lychee martinis and Italian entrées in a wicked wave of vomit.
Cold sweat dotted my spine as my stomach convulsed.
Franco’s thumb. They’d cut off his thumb.
I retched again.
If they did that to get to Q, what the hell would they do to him now he was in their clutches?
I moaned, convulsing harder; my soul tried to claw its way out of my mouth.
Gentle fingers whispered across my neck, tugging damp strands, twisting them into a messy bun.
I looked up, still hugging the porcelain. Franco gave me a sad smile. “It’s probably a good thing it’s all out of your system. But we need to go. Do you think you’ll be okay?” I couldn’t help looking at his left hand, saturated in blood, wrapped with his tie around the stump of where his thumb used to be.
My stomach rolled as an image of Q’s fingers being cut off consumed me, but I swallowed hard.
Stop being a f**king girl.
I refused to waste another minute. Wiping my mouth, I stood up and made my way to the sink. Franco shuffled with me, holding my hair so I could wash my face. The broken dress gaped and flashed my br**sts but I was beyond caring. Franco and I were well past a bit of flesh. He’d just become my lifeline in order to get Q back.
“Give me one minute,” I croaked through my bile-scalded throat.
Franco nodded, releasing my hair.
Rushing to the wardrobe, I grabbed a thick black jumper and jeans. Shoving the dress down my hips, I quickly yanked the jeans on and threw the sweater over my head, before wedging my feet into some ballet flats.
Franco limped toward me, a slight smirk on his lips. “Have to say that brought back memories of watching you dress into that slinky gold number for Q’s dinner party.” Then his eyes darkened. “Has he told you why he did that yet?”
My mind flashed back to the past—the mermaid filigree dress that hid nothing and offered everything to the Russian in the white jump suit. Shaking my head, I muttered, “No. But whatever his reasoning, I accept it. I knew even then he wasn’t as bad as he came across. I think I loved him the moment you forced me to bow.”