Another lacerating pain flashed through my stomach at the thought of anything happening to him. It couldn’t. Not to Q. I wouldn’t let it.

He can’t die! Not now.

Then help Franco. He’s your only hope.

Anger heated my body at the realization of my own mortality. I could chase after the men, try to be heroic and leap on their backs and cry and scream…but ultimately all I’d achieve was Q being shot sooner and me joining him.

“Come help me up,” Franco ordered. “Whatever’s going through your head—stop it. It’s not as bad as you think.” His deep voice slapped me out of my disbelieving haze, dragging me back to earth.

Clutching my dress, I whirled around. “Not as bad as I think? Not as bad!” I stalked toward him. “They took him, Franco. They stole him from my arms and shot him.” My eyes burned but no tears fell. I wanted to scream until my throat bled. I wanted to kill every single last one of those bastards who’d taken what I couldn’t live without.

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.”

Franco half-smiled. “I only forced you because I understood the look in his eyes. He’d never had that look before.”

Going to him, I slung his arm over my shoulders, taking some of his weight. “What look?” We hobbled to the exit.

It was good to keep my mind on other things. It distracted me from what Q might be suffering—kept me levelheaded.

Franco sighed. “Lust…attraction…maybe even love. Who knows.” Giving me a quick smile, he said, “Either way. I knew he wanted you, and I wanted to see him happy.”

Franco opened the doorknob; we made our way slowly into the corridor.

This is going to take forever. He’s too injured.

I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for having Franco’s help, but we needed to go. We needed to hunt. How could we do that if Franco could barely walk and needed urgent surgery?

Franco hissed as I propelled him faster. “There’s a plan in motion. It’s not just us. So you don’t have to panic.”

My heart raced. Q—hold on. “What plan?”

“We had a discussion after Q rescued you. We knew the likelihood of them coming for him was high, so we had a system put in place. It’s already started.” Franco looked at his watch. “I’d say about twenty-five minutes ago—the moment they barged into my room and beat the f**k out of me.”

My body grew hot then cold, roasting then frigid. I wanted to split myself into an army of people and scour Italy for Q. I wanted to know what plan was in effect.

He can’t die. I won’t let him.

The elevator up ahead pinged, delivering its cargo like a tsunami of weapons and badges. Franco and I slammed to a stop.

“What the—” he muttered as a hoard of policemen all in smart black uniforms and silver brocade rushed toward us.

We stood like an island as a sea of police officers darted past, disappearing into the room we’d just vacated. I blinked. Was this part of the plan? Enlisting the local force to help us track Q?

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. If they were here to help then great…but if they weren’t…

Franco tensed, pushing me away to stand on his own two feet. His jaw ticked as he shoved his bloody, thumb-missing hand into his pocket.

A detective with slicked black hair and greying temples climbed off the lift, coming toward us. He narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay, sir? Ma’am?”

My heart latched itself to my voice box; I squeaked some stupid reply. My instincts were prickling, warning. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like this. Which was ridiculous as they were the law. We’d done nothing wrong—we were the victims. So why did I suddenly feel like a criminal?

The detective’s gaze fell on Franco, taking in his bloody clothing and protective stance. “What happened here tonight?”

Franco glowered. “Nothing. What are you doing here?”

The officer scowled. “We don’t have to explain our presence to you. Especially when it looks as if we’ve come to a scene of a serious crime.” His eyes pierced mine, looking me up and down.

I was aware of how I must look: white face, smudged mascara, and a jitter that looked as if I was high and needing my next fix. How could I explain the adrenaline in my system was from watching my lover be shot and marched away?

“Ma’am. Did this man hurt you?” His hand fell to his holstered weapon.

“What? No!” I leapt in front of Franco. “Not at all. Look we—”

“Tess—shut up.” Franco yanked me back by my jeans loop. Looking at the officer, he snapped, “You’re interfering. This is a private undercover operation. Now, let us pass.”

The officer’s eyebrow rose; his chest puffed out, swelling with testosterone. “You’re not going anywhere until I determine what occurred here tonight.” Taking out a notepad from his breast pocket, he scanned his notes. “Do you know anything about an indecent exposure incident that happened about thirty minutes ago? A passer-by said they saw a disturbance in one of the suites on this floor.” His eyes zeroed in on Franco. “According to witnesses, a woman whose face was covered was forced against the glass while an unseen male had intercourse with her. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”

Franco threw me an incredulous look, his eyes yelling a message: Q did what?

I would’ve blushed if I had any blood left in my head—it’d all congealed in my feet leaving me ice cold. The one time I let go and it landed me in police custody.

Shit, what could I do? Lie.

My instincts said to run. I needed to run before they—

“You’re under arrest,” the officer announced. “I don’t care if you had nothing to do with that charge. You’re covered in blood and running from the location of a complaint. You’re both coming with us until we can find the truth of this matter.”

Oh no. No!

“Sir, it isn’t what you think. Please—” I begged.

“Tess, shut—” Franco began, only to groan in agony as the officer grabbed his elbow, tearing his hand from his pocket to secure metal handcuffs.

“Che cazzo?!” The officer’s mouth fell open, staring at Franco’s butchered hand. The tie wrapped around the stump dripped crimson all over the pristine snowy carpet. The detective glared at us, confusion and a slight thread of fear entering his black gaze. “Someone better start talking about what happened here tonight.”

I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. This was beyond the realms of comprehension. Q had been stolen by men who would kill him—and we were being detained by a foreign police force who would delay us until it was too late.

A bubble of insane tearful laughter threatened to break.

Franco snapped, “Get me to the hospital. I’m not in a position to answer questions, as you can clearly see.”

Policemen returned from scouting our suite. “All clear, boss. No one’s there. However, we found blood and believe there were a few men who have left the premises.”