Dirty War Read online

  “D,” I call out, but he holds up his palm, stopping me as his head shakes again.

  “This has fucked-up written all over it. He’s not my kid, for the record.” He takes another step away, making me swallow hard because I know what’s coming. “I’m out.”

  “Drago,” I try to stop him with my voice since I can’t readily jump out of bed to go after him, but it falls on deaf ears. He leaves, exiting my room without looking back.

  “What on earth have you gotten mixed up in?” my dad asks.

  “Ahh!”

  Fuck it all to hell. I might as well lay it all out for him. I need advice, even if it’s from him, I’ll take it. At least I know he’ll give it to me bluntly. That’s something I’ve always known I could count on from him. He tells it like he thinks it, and he doesn’t care whose feelings get hurt in the process. He has no filter or no fucks to give.

  So, I tell him. I pour my heart out to my dad for the first time in my life.

  When I wake up, the hospital room is dim. Only the light in the bathroom shines through the crack in the door. When my father finally left, I cried for the first time, allowing myself to feel every emotion I kept hugged to my chest. They didn’t stay trapped long once I let the floodgates lift.

  I cried until I wore myself out. I thought the tears would’ve eventually stopped, but that “cry until you can’t cry anymore” isn’t real. They kept coming until I passed out from exhaustion. Even now, if I allowed myself, they’d want to breach the surface again.

  I don’t want to cry anymore. I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I shouldn’t feel this way to begin with and I don’t understand why I do. My emotions don’t make any sense to me. I’d understand them if I’d been connected with the baby I carried unknowingly for seven weeks.

  How can you miss something you never knew you had? How can you want it back so badly when its existence wasn’t known until it was no more? And Gabriel . . . my sweet Gabriel. He isn’t even mine, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him back. The restless nights, the non-stop crying that first night, I’ll take it. I’ll take it with open arms if I can hold him again.

  Blinking my thoughts away, I turn to face the other side of the room, only to wince at the on-site of pain that follows my movement. I can’t even tell you if it’s from my bruised ribs, being shot, or . . .

  I stop my brain, steeling myself from fully thinking the one thought that could potentially break me. I will not cry again. I am stronger than this, and if I’m going to get out of here and locate Gabriel, I have to gather all the strength I have and not let the results of what happened to me weaken my drive.

  When I open my eyes, easing onto my side the rest of the way, I see him—Drago.

  He’s lying on his back on the small couch next to the window, his arms folded behind his head with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. I don’t have to look up to know he’s not interested in anything up there. He’s thinking—maybe lost in thought, because he’s deathly still.

  It makes me nervous and this is a first for me around him. I’ve never experienced anxiety until this moment. Right now, my stomach is breaching my closed throat.

  I don’t know what to say, or do, so I watch him as he continues staring at the tiles on the ceiling.

  He’s beautiful even though his large body is hanging halfway off the hospital furniture. One leg is stretched over the end, his other bent with his foot planted on the floor. In any other circumstance, I might find amusement in how he doesn’t fit. I’m not even sure why he came back after he stormed out. I doubt I would have if someone I had been fucking and carrying on a relationship with had kept me in the dark like I did him. Does it really matter that I wasn’t allowed to divulge the information? In hindsight, now that I’ll probably lose my job anyway, I still can’t answer that. My conscious keeps flipping sides, torn between what was the right thing to do both personally and professionally.

  “What happened?” After several minutes, the silence is broken.

  “What do you mean?” I croak, my mouth dry as a bone.

  “At your condo.” He doesn’t turn to look at me and it makes my stomach plummet. I want to see his eyes. Good or bad, I need to see them to know how he feels about me. I know I don’t deserve his mercy. I wouldn’t give it if the roles were reversed. I know that wholeheartedly. “I want to know every detail.” His voice is strained, his jaw a block of steel as he forces them out.

  I look over my shoulder, needing water if I’m going to relive it all again. It’s not like I wasn’t expecting this part. I’m surprised Tom didn’t take my statement earlier, or have Mike do it. Now that I think back on it and my head is clearer it’s very odd, actually.

  Why didn’t he? That’s routine and the first thing you do if the victim is able to speak.

  Spotting a plastic jug of water on the rolling table next to my bed, I turn back over, biting my bottom lip to stifle the pain that wants to be verbalized.

  Before I’m able to reach for the cup and jug, Drago has rounded the bed, picking them both up, pouring the water for me.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking it and trying to lift myself up with my free hand.

  “They have adjustable beds in hospitals for a reason,” he says, retracting his hand and then proceeds to reach down to the side of the bed, pressing a button that begins to move the bed into a seated position.

  “Thanks,” I tell him again, taking a sip, the ice water shocking my system as I swallow the liquid down.

  “You ready to spill yet?”

  He’s not being a jerk, but he is so standoffish that I’d rather welcome his anger right now.

  Taking in a slow breath, I exhale even slower, focusing on his face and not the pain. I haven’t hit the morphine button once, and I don’t plan on it. The pain will pass. I’m healing, and this is just part of it.

  Taking one last sip, I pass the cup back to him and launch into what happened and what Diaz told me, leaving out the part where he groped me and made sexual innuendos. They aren’t important where D is concerned. He needs to worry about his son—not me.

  “He said Gabriel is insurance to get you to start moving his drugs again.”

  Drago walks over to stand in front of the window, not saying anything more for several minutes. Light is just starting to break through the sky, telling me it’s morning, probably around six o’clock or maybe a little before.

  “If you know he’s mine, where did you get my DNA from to test?”

  “The morning after we first slept together,” I confess. He turns, putting the back of his head against the wall, eyeing me. “When I used the bathroom, I saw your toothbrush sitting on the counter and got the idea to take it.” His brows scrunch together in confusion. “I found an extra, unopened brush head in one of the bathroom drawers, so I put the new one on and took the one you’d been using.”

  “Had that always been part of the plan that night you showed up at the club? Try to seduce me and take my spit?”

  I have to grit my teeth in order not to tell him to go fuck himself at that very thought.

  “No,” I finally force out when I know I have more control over my tongue. “I would never do something like that.”

  “No.” He half-laughs. “But you’ll let me fuck you, let me date you, all while knowing I somehow magically have a kid I knew nothing about. I must say, I’m not sure I believe he’s mine.”

  “D, he is. I assure you.” I ignore the hurt in my chest the way his tone feels like lashes against my skin.

  “Seems convenient. Too convenient. LAPD would do anything, your boss would do anything, to find a shred of evidence that my family business isn’t legit.” He blows out a rush of air. “I don’t put this past any of you to use an innocent child as some form of leverage.”

  “We didn’t take Gabriel. Diaz did.” I have to swallow, taking a calming breath before I finish. “I thought Gabriel being with me was the safest place for him, not with some stranger he didn’t know and they didn’t know hi
m.” But I was wrong. And if I could go back and re-do every time I didn’t push Tom to get me in touch with his contact or every time I chose not to bring it to Mike’s attention, I would. I knew he would have handled it had I said something—anything.

  “If he’s mine, who’s his mother?”

  Fuck. Should I tell him? I’m already in hot water so . . . I make a decision I know could cost me more than just my job.

  “Chasity Carlisle.”

  His brows knit together and it’s like he’s scrutinizing me to see if I’m being honest. It makes me mad more than anything else.

  “The deputy mayor’s niece?”

  I nod, thinking back to my first and only conversation with her. She doesn’t seem like his type after I’ve gotten to know him. Then again, what do I really know?

  “Hmph.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve never fucked her, so tell me again how this kid is mine, Detective?”

  My brows furrow, not understanding how that’s possible nor liking the way he’s back to calling me by a title rather than my name. Letting the latter go, I cock my head, thinking. Maybe he doesn’t remember sleeping with Chasity. It’s not a stretch after all. I don’t remember the first time D and I slept together so . . .

  “He’s your son, D. I swear I’m not lying to you.”

  “With the exception of you, I’ve never fucked without a condom. And her?” He laughs.

  “Wait. What?” He stills, closing his eyes. It’s then I remember his comments from last night. Not every time. “When did we have sex without protection?” Obviously, it had to have been that first night, I think to myself, because I’ve been sober every other time we’ve been intimate. “D,” I prompt when he doesn’t say anything.

  Opening his eyes, he turns, looking back out the window.

  “Drago!” I call out, regretting the moment the words leave my mouth. “Shit,” I whine.

  My hand shakes uncontrollably and tears threaten to spill from the unexpected cramp. It’s the worst I’ve experienced yet. I’ve always been lucky; my menstrual cycles have never been bad.

  He’s at my bedside within seconds, grabbing my hand. As quick as it struck, it’s gone, relief taking over. When I look up, our eyes lock.

  “I can’t, Bri. Leave it for now.” His eyes bore into mine, and for the first time, I see a vulnerability in them.

  Clearly, he should understand my need to know what happened. Why would he have had sex with me without a condom? Sober, I would never consent to sex without the use of protection, and I would’ve thought that even in a drunken state I would be no different. Surely I would’ve had enough sense to demand he use one.

  I’m about to tell him that when the overhead light flicks on, making me blink at the abrupt brightness.

  I look at the door, seeing the doctor from last night entering.

  “Good morning, Miss Andrews. How are you feeling today?” He looks worn out the closer he gets to my bedside.

  “Better than yesterday.” I lie. The pain is much worse than when I woke up yesterday, but I’m not telling him that. I plan on getting out of here today even if that means going against doctor’s orders.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” His voice sounds genuine and being a physician I’m sure it is. I doubt he would be in this profession if he didn’t enjoy helping patients get well.

  “When do I get to leave?” No sense in beating around the bush.

  “Bri,” Drago says in warning—which I ignore.

  “The bullet barely grazed my leg. The wound and my ribs will heal over time. And you said the other”—I fist the hand Drago isn’t holding so tight my nails dig into my skin—“would handle itself naturally. So, when can I be discharged?”

  Dr. Thornton—I read the name on his coat, now remembering it from last night—breathes out a long breath of air, looking at me and shaking his head. “Determined, aren’t you?”

  “No sense in running up a hospital bill when I’m sure there are other people in the ER that need this bed more than I do.”

  “Bri,” Drago says again.

  “I’d like the obstetrician to check you over this morning, talk to you about your options, and then if she clears you, you can be discharged later this afternoon.”

  Afternoon. Jesus.

  6

  I slowly ascend the stairs, my feet heavy and dragging. Everything still hurts, but I welcome the pain. I need it. It’ll fuel me like drugs can’t—not for what I need. Anger.

  After the trauma surgeon left this morning, I finally moved around and inspected my injuries for the first time. My body is wrecked. I’m not a vain person, but when I looked in the mirror, I cringed at the person looking back.

  I’m black and blue from head to toe. I have a gash on my forehead just below my hairline on the right side. My abdomen looks like it was used as target practice, and well, I guess it was. Taking three shots at close range will do that to a person. It’s only by the grace of God that I still had on that vest. The wound on my leg isn’t near as bad as I had expected, so that’s good, I guess. Fragments had to be dug out of my skin, but the bullet literally grazed me. Didn’t stop it from hurting like a bitch when it happened though.

  This is the first time I’ve been back to his house since our first night together; the night we had created something neither one of us knew about. And then it was gone before I could cherish it; protect him or her. That sounds cruel; it feels cruel. My job feels insignificant compared to the ache that continues to fester inside of me.

  I halt, shutting my eyes while grabbing ahold of the railing and stealing a moment to breathe, so I can keep my emotions at bay. If I don’t let my mind process it, I’m okay. I can deal much better.

  I don’t want to think about my miscarriage, so opening my eyes, I peek around as I stand in the middle of the stairwell, taking in my surroundings. Drago has family photos along the wall. His house feels like a home. It’s warm and inviting. This is Drago’s sanctuary, but it still makes me wonder if this is really him or if it’s Mona, a longtime family friend and his housekeeper, trying to give this powerful man a comfortable place to lay his head at night.

  I never gave it much thought—coming over to his house, and it’s not like he invited me either. It was just more convenient for Drago to come over to my place with me caring for the baby.

  My Gabriel.

  I miss him so much, and I can’t shut off my thoughts where he is concerned. He’s out there somewhere and who knows what’s happening to him, if he’s scared, if he’s being fed. Worry like nothing I’ve ever experienced before is seated on top of my chest and hasn’t let up. And I know it won’t until he’s safe. Until he’s back with me.

  Please, God, please let him be found.

  My throat closes up again. I’ve lost count how many times it’s happened today.

  I don’t know how I’m going to locate him now that I’ve gotten myself suspended and have an internal investigation to deal with—but I must find a way.

  My cell phone rings from the back pocket of the scrubs one of the nurses was kind enough to give me to go home in. I had been in that hospital way longer than I intended to be and I didn’t want to wait for someone to bring me clothes to change into.

  I sent Connie a text message this morning and got a response saying she wasn’t allowed to have any communication with me until IA completes their assessment. Fucking bullshit.

  The department wouldn’t tell me who I could and couldn’t speak to if the roles were reversed. Then again, maybe that’s why I’m in this mess and she isn’t.

  Still bullshit in my mind.

  Pulling out my phone, I look at the screen, seeing Dad displayed at the top of the screen. He’s furious at me. But at this rate, who isn’t? I haven’t had time to call my brother yet, and I asked my dad not to tell him. I know he won’t speak to Alana, so there is no fear of her finding out unless I tell her, but Jackson—that’s another story. The fact that he isn’t
here can only mean my father either accepted my wishes, or my brother is out of town on business. I’m guessing the former since he hasn’t called me—which surprises me because my father never bends to my will. Of course, I never bend to his either.

  “Bri,” Drago barks, making me turn, looking over my shoulder at him standing at the bottom of the staircase. Not that he’s that far down. I’ve only made it up the seventh or eighth step in my slow trek up. “Why didn’t you ask me to take you upstairs?”

  “Because I can do it,” I tell him. I’m not helpless. A bullet and a beat-up body won’t stop me. Not today anyway. “And I didn’t want to bother you any more than I already have. You could have taken me home like I asked, you know.”

  “Your condo is a crime scene, or do I need to remind you of that again?”

  “No.” I breathe out in frustration. “I could’ve gone home with my dad.” That’s why my dad is mad at me. I chose Drago over him. Well, that’s how he sees it. Drago didn’t exactly give me a choice. He was dead set on me leaving with him and instead of joining the Battle of the Alpha Male shouting match happening in my room, I conceded. Besides, D and I really need to have a serious talk with no other ears listening so . . .

  Rather than respond to me, he places his hand on the rail then steps up, walking toward me until he’s standing on the stair below me. God, he’s handsome. With everything that’s weighing on my mind, Drago’s good looks shouldn’t be one of them, but it always is when I look at him.

  “Come on,” he says, grabbing both of my hands, pulling them over his shoulders. “I’ll take you upstairs. You need to rest.”

  Wrapping my arms around his shoulders, I cup the back of his neck firmly as he lifts me, being careful not to touch the leg that’s banged-up underneath my clothes. I don’t refuse him because I need his touch. I need to feel more of his skin than the few times he’s held my hand in the last twenty-four hours. I need the contact more so now than I ever have before.