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I turn toward the man, who is almost at Frenchy’s.
Frenchy walks out, a phone pressed to his ear. He hangs up and looks at me. “There’s been an accident, and Cristina’s been rushed to the emergency room.”
I take a moment to process his words. People are already mobilizing themselves for the trip to the hospital. If they’re rushing her to the emergency room, she’s still alive.
I hold Maria tighter. “Maria,” I call to her, my gaze on the ambulance still making its way through the traffic jam. “Maria, look at me.”
The poor woman who went through the loss of her husband and a friend and is now facing the loss of her child looks up at me, her tearstained gaze seeking hope. “Is there anything you can do for my daughter?”
People want me to play God. I’m not the all-powerful, but she doesn’t want to hear that. “I promise I will give her my heart if that’ll save her life. How’s that?”
She blinks, having no idea that I’m going through much the same fear as she is, having no idea I’m serious about giving up my beating heart for her daughter. It would be of no use to me if she were to die anyway.
“Thank you,” Maria says. I hand her over to Frenchy while I search for Father Thomas. He’s almost reached us, but I can tell he’s struggling to close the distance. He’s pushing eighty, and walking the distance from the church to the restaurant isn’t easy. I move toward him, Jace at my side.
“Tell me,” I say, jogging toward the priest. He sees me coming and redoubles his efforts.
“None of her team of guards are answering,” Jace says.
“That means they’re dead.”
I reach Father Thomas, who’s near collapse. I grab his elbow and find a bench where he can rest and catch his breath. There’s a bruise on the man’s face, as if he fell and scraped it.
“There were men there,” he says, his breathing labored. “I saw them drag Cristina Mancini out of the church, and I tried to stop them. I swear on my life, Severio, I tried.” As he’s catching his breath, I suppress the urge to throttle him so he can speak with more clarity.
“What men?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Never seen them before. Not from around here.”
“And?”
“They dragged her to a van. I ran after her, but”—he points at his face—“one of them hit me with the butt of his gun.” He touches his cheekbone. “It’s broken again, just like you broke it that one time you thought I was looking at her.”
“Forget that now.” He’s losing it. Old. Stressed. Near collapse. “Tell me what happened next,” I order, shaking him by the shoulders because he’s losing consciousness.
“They were pushing her inside a van, but she fought them and ran.” He starts to sob like Maria.
“Did they shoot her?” I ask. I’m not ready for the answer. I’m not ready. But I must hear what happened so I can handle the situation.
“A car hit her.”
“Jesus,” I breathe out and run a hand through my hair. Those are all the shocks I’m allowed before I must issue orders. “What color was the van?”
“What?” The priest’s eyes roll back. I shake him harder. “What color was it?”
“White,” he says. “No windows.”
I can’t release him yet, and I can’t assume anything. I must be sure, because time is of the essence. “Where is Cristina now?”
He points toward the ambulance, which has finally cleared the traffic.
Now I release him. “Help over here, Frenchy!” I shout before I sprint toward the hospital.
Jace sprints with me.
I look over at him. “You’re in charge of the search for the white van without windows.”
“That’s it?” he asks.
