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“We’ll get him to the hospital,” Jerry promised.
“It will be all right, beautiful. I promise,” Noah assured her.
Alessandra lost sight of Drake at some point. EMTs arrived and began to treat his wounds before loading him into the ambulance. She tried to climb on board but was stopped by Grant Ellis, a man whose role in everything she still didn’t understand. He kept talking about an operation with men and women wearing identifying vests and IDs around their necks.
She learned the Irish bride, Fiona, had escaped unscathed. Though Alessandra hated and cursed the woman who was meant to be Drake’s new bride, she felt sorry for the poor girl being forced down the aisle. No one should suffer a forced wedding, but she was thankful Drake became her husband.
CPD attempted to control the scene, keeping university students and reporters at bay. A never-ending stream of news vehicles seemed to arrive. Even helicopters zoomed overhead for an aerial view of the commotion. Several body bags were removed from the chapel, and Alessandra turned her head.
After answering a million questions, she was finally dismissed. Grant drove her to the hospital in his SUV. His vehicle had a specially rigged siren, so the Saturday, mid-afternoon traffic yielded to their whims.
Alessandra was frantic by the time she was led to the ICU. The person she first saw was Bitsy, and she ran up to her mother-in-law, crying on her shoulder.
“Alessandra? Are you all right, sweetheart?”
“Drake was shot! They wouldn’t let me ride to the hospital with him. Is he okay?”
Drake’s mother pulled her in for a tight squeeze. They remained wordless until a middle-aged man in a white coat approached them.
“Walker family?”
“Yes. Is Drake all right?” Alessandra asked.
“He’s resting.”
“Can we see him?” Bitsy asked.
“Only family may visit,” the doctor said firmly.
“Alessandra is my son’s wife. She should see him first.” Bitsy turned to Alessandra. “Give him my love, dear. And tell him if he pulls anything like that again, I will disown him. My heart can’t handle this kind of stress.”
The women hugged briefly before the doctor led Alessandra down the empty corridor. Her heels clicked against the tiled flooring, filling the space with noise. Looking down at her dress covered with Drake’s dried blood made her ill. She would’ve stripped, except walking around in nothing more than a thong and heels would be frowned upon.
Alessandra had spent more time in the hospital over the last six months than she had in her entire life. If this level of pain was all they had to look forward to, getting divorced was for the best.
Drake was sitting up in the bed with his chest wrapped in bandages. Alessandra flew to his side and grabbed his hand.
“Drake! Thank god you’re okay,” she sobbed.
“Alessandra?” he croaked.
“You were shot. I was so worried about you.”
“I was wearing a vest. I’m all right, I promise. We planned it all, bella. We’re free now.”
“What?”
Alessandra looked at him, confused. Jerry, Russell, and Grant joined them.
“We staged the shooting. It was the only way to stop Enzo and Tony. We also crippled the Irish mob,” Grant said, pleased.
“We did this for you, bella,” Drake said.
“For me?” she screeched.
“Miss Russo,” Russell began. “I’m sorry, but your father didn’t survive the chapel fight.”
“My father’s dead?” Alessandra went numb.
