REMEDY: A Mafia Romance (Return to Us Trilogy Book 3) (2 page)

Present day

Jacade

Slam
!

Delia plows straight through Viktor's rusted wrought iron entry gate. It bends over the hood, screeching and sparking against the road. In my side mirror, the image of a guard running after me with his gun drawn diminishes out of range.

I swerve to the left and jerk the car to the right. The gate unhinges and lands in the ditch. A hostile flash of vertical light cracks on the horizon followed by a gut-roiling savage thunder.

The rain mixes with the bloody print on the screen of Viktor's phone.

Her blood. On my hands. Again.

No, not now. Focus.

The map shows I'm thirty miles from Lakeshore. There's another hospital closer, but I want Jett.

"Talk."

"Jett. Lakeshore. It's…" My tone falters. "Ivy. It's Ivy. 911. I'm fifteen minutes out."

"Got it." Female voices titter in the background.

"You?" A dinging alerts me he's climbing behind the wheel.

"I'm good."

"Morgue entrance. No ER."

The phone falls from my hand and thumps on the floor by my feet. The downpour pelts my hair and face, and I squint into the deluge to find the ramp to the interstate.

Delia fishtails into the emergency entrance ten minutes later. Ivy's body leaves a red sun of rain on the seat. A warm burst of air hits my soaked face as I carry her through the automatic double doors. A staff of jarred second-shift nurses stare with bulging eyes at the gruesome sight of Ivy's limp, bloody figure in my arms. I charge past their shaken stares and carry her into the clinical area of the emergency room.

"You can't go in there, sir."

The hell I can't.

Two nurses follow me down the hallway and into the first open exam room.

"Sir!"

I lay Ivy's body down on the gurney. "Prep her for surgery!" I raise my arm and point at Ivy. "Move it! Do your damn job!" We only have minutes, people.

Rivers of dirt and blood course down the drain as I wash my hands in the sink. Christ. Scrubbing in is going to take forever.

"Everyone out!" Jett's voice roars through the room. "Leta, get in here!"

I scour my skin, but the red won't come off.

I don't look up as I speak to Jett. "Thirty-eight caliber GSW to anterior left lower quadrant. No exit wound. Moderate blood loss."

"Jude, did you need…" a female voice asks.

"GSW protocol. Page Dr. Kelch." Jett speaks to her. "And make sure no one calls this in."

"Dr. Kelch left hours ago. Dr. Thomas is the surgeon on-call tonight." She bustles around the room.

I need to keep scrubbing.

"Get Kelch here now, Leta!" Jett puts his hand on my shoulder. "This isn't the morgue entrance, Trip."

I don't give a shit, Jett. "Don't touch me." I shrug him off. "I wasn't taking her there."

"You need to leave." He tugs on my elbow.

"Fuck off!" I pull my arm from his grasp.

"You're too close to her. You know that. Go sit down. Once I have her stable, I'll check on you."

"I'm staying."

He pushes my chest.

I grimace and yell, "Get off me, fuckbag!" as I knock his hands away.

My right fist leaves a filthy wet mark on his shirt. His face hardens and I rush him. We grapple and push, but it hurts like hell. His back knocks into the gurney, and the nurse speaks up.

"Hey! This isn't the time!"

He works me into a clinch and says in my ear, "Give up, man. I taught you how to fight, jackass." I collapse onto him and suppress a sob. "No time to waste. I've got her, Trip." His voice is steadfast. "I'm the best at what I do. I've got her."

He releases me. I brace my arms on the sides of the sink, my head hanging low.

Please, Jett.

Save her.

***

Jacade

Squeak-squeak. Squeak-squeak
.

The shoes I pilfered from Trey's corpse impart the only noise as I trudge through the deserted breezeway of Lakeshore Memorial. My shirt pulls tight on my shoulders as the streaks of rusted blood dry and stiffen. Pain stabs my foot with each step, but if I walk, I have purpose.

Three hours Ivy's been on the table in the OR. One hundred eighty minutes of fucking torment.

If she dies because of me… No. Not an option.

My steps falter. Damn it all to hell. I force myself to keep moving. I'm the fucking surgeon. I don't wait outside operating rooms. I should be in there.

"Do you need assistance?" a nurse stops to ask, but I wander past her.

I should call Helen. What do I say? Ivy came to rescue me, and I'm strolling through the hospital while she's on an operating table fighting for breath. The same breath I forced into her lungs three years ago.

Helen's going to claw my skin off. I fucking deserve it. This is unjust. It's blasphemy to spare my damned soul in return for an angel's.

Goddamned Bernard caused all this shit. I clench and unclench my fists. Could it be true? Ivy is Raymond's granddaughter? I'll murder the old man for playing me all these years. He won't have the opportunity to sacrifice Ivy to get what he wants once he's six feet under. Retribution will be mine. I'll need to get Ivy's permission to kill her uncle.

Ivy.

Bleeding to death on a fucking metal table.

Fight
,
Ivy
.

Come back to me
.

"Dr. Jordan!"

I can't stop. My feet lumber over the one-foot-square tiles.

"Sir." Fingers grasp my bicep.

I spin and peg a man's hand to the thick windowpane.

Shane.

I huff out a sharp breath and release him. "Sorry."

"Any word on Ivy?" Shane flattens the tails of his rumpled dress shirt. Dark circles ring his eyes, but no visible injuries.

"No." I rub the back of my neck. "She's still in the OR with Jett."

"I take the blame for this. My phone wasn't secure. Bryn set Ivy in motion."

I close my eyes and wave my hand in the air. "Don't, Shane. None of this is your fault."

"I lost control of the vehicle in the alley and hit the wall. I took myself out." He lowers his head and shakes it. "I should've been guarding Ivy, not lying unconscious in a goddamn hospital bed."

I rest my hands on his shoulders, and he lifts his face. "You drove straight into heavy fire for me. Thank you." I drop my hands. "There were three of them against two of us. I was set up." By Kara, who is dead, and Carlos, who will be soon. "Nothing you could've done to prevent it."

"We had the location, but Ivy beat us to it." He shifts his feet and puts his hands in his pockets.

"I was sure if you survived, you'd be looking for me. Ivy went in reckless and didn't tell anyone. This shit is on me, not you. I chose this life. You are not responsible."

His face hardens.

"I was trying to get the whale's attention and it worked. He's gone." I keep my voice low. It's sketchy to discuss this here, but I need to curtail his self-flagellation. "Now, have you received medical attention?"

"Yes. Just a concussion."

"Good."

"Can I get you anything?"

"I need a watch. A phone. Some clothes. She'll need clothes too…" if she makes it. She will make it.

I turn and walk away. Gotta keep moving. "Wait. One more thing." I stop and pivot to face him again. "Get a new armored vehicle, with a fucking M-16 mounted on the roof."

***

Jacade

Two hours later, I've abandoned my aimless pacing of halls and returned to hexing the operating room doors. Jett emerges with his head down. I step toward him, my fists clenched. He pulls off his navy-blue scrub cap and raises his gaze to mine.

His weary eyes reveal nothing. "We need to talk." He points in the direction of the surgical waiting room. "This way."

I follow him to the empty room and take a seat across from him in one of the leather armchairs. He rests his elbows on his knees and stretches the cap between his hands. I can't deal with this. If she's gone… No. No way in hell. She can't be.

"I'm not sure how to go about this." He strokes his hand through his hair.

"Is she…" I choke on my words. "Did she…"

He lowers his chin and stares at me. "I promised you I'd take care of her, didn't I? Ivy would not die on my watch. Kelch and I made a critical decision in there."

I swallow the tumbleweed in my throat. He wraps and unwraps the drawstrings of his scrubs around his fingers.

"Trip, I need you to think like a physician right now. Not as a man whose woman was dancing with St. Peter a few hours ago. All right?"

How the hell do I do that? Ivy is my life. I became a doctor to be with her. Still, I tilt my head for him to continue.

"The bullet ruptured her uterus. We had to do a total hysterectomy to stem the bleeding. Fragments were embedded in her ovaries. We took those too."

"Okay… but she's stable?"

"Yes."

Why is he being so theatrical? She's alive. I sit back in the chair and stare at him.

"She's in recovery, but we're not out of the woods yet."

"She survived," I whisper. My body is bruised and spent, but the only reason for my existence still breathes.

He moves to sit in the chair next to me. "You do get that Ivy can never have children?"

"I get it. I just don't care."

"She
will care."

She will care
.

Oh god.

I get it.

Grime sticks under my fingernails as I scrape my head in frustration.

Fuck, I'm a selfish prick. What's wrong with me? I didn't even consider her feelings.

She'll never carry a child because she came to liberate me, the man who can't be saved. I've taken that future from her.

"I understand," I mutter.

Shit.

"We'll let you decide when to tell Ivy. She may need to talk to someone. Kelch's wife is a psychiatrist. She'll be available, and she's trustworthy."

I close my eyes. The room spins out of control.

"I'm going check on her. I'll be back." Jett rises and pats me on the shoulder before he leaves the room.

I hold my head in my hands and stare a hole in the floor.

A sun of blood stains Delia's seat
.

Her limp body thunks onto the metal table
.

Viktor smacks her
.

Argh! I yank my hair but it doesn't dislodge the images or the guilt.

A duffel bag drops near my feet.

"What time is it?" I look up and rub my eyes. Pain flares in my swollen right cheek.

"Early." Jett props his feet on the chair next to mine and tosses a pair of scrubs on my lap. "Go clean yourself up."

"No. I want to be here if she needs me."

"I'm not letting you near her without a shower. One touch and you'll give her some incurable infection."

He rests his neck on the back of the chair and links his fingers over his torso. "I'll wait."

I glance down at the detritus of an apocalypse on my clothes. Shit, he's spot-on. Infection is her greatest risk right now, and I'm a walking petri dish. In the locker room, I peel off my shirt and wince as the fabric tears away the blood caked to my cuts. Bracing one hand on the wall, I watch the reddish brown muck of this nightmare circle the drain and disappear. Fresh blood permeates the clean scrub shirt as I dress. In the waiting area, Jett stops scrolling through his phone and sets it on the chair to his right.

"Okay, little brother, let's get you fixed up. She can't wake up to you looking like this."

"Yeah, they did a number on me." The mirror in the locker room wasn't merciful. Huge laceration on my lip, jagged cuts in my pec, aggravated puncture wounds on my arm and foot.

He sighs and pulls out his suture kit, alcohol, and gauze. I sit on the edge of my chair as he slips on rubber gloves. He applies alcohol and a butterfly bandage to the cut on my lip.

"So, she went in there by herself to get her man back? Guns a blazin'?" He raises one eyebrow. "That's some Sarah Connor shit right there." He laughs at his own joke. He's punch-drunk after a long night.

"Yeah, it's downright heroic." I glare at him. "Do not make light of the situation, Jett." I have no patience for his bullshit right now.

He narrows his eyes. "Take off your shirt. Let's see the damage."

I reach behind my neck to pull the scrub top off. He scrunches his forehead and squints at the blood seeping from the rudimentary letter
I
carved into my chest. Yeah, not so funny now, is it, big brother?