Chapter 122: I Am Having the Worst Vacation Ever

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As the car ran smoothly through the Paris streets, dark windows reflecting the passing streetlights, I could hear distant sirens trailing behind us.

Occasionally, a flash of blue or red light would momentarily illuminate the buildings outside, a stark reminder of the chaos we left behind, where people rushed toward the site, hoping to save those who hadn’t made it out in time.

I could still smell the smoke wafting from my clothes, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the dust stuck in my hair. Every swallow felt like I’d just eaten a handful of construction debris. I probably looked the part too.

My suit was a wreck—one sleeve was torn, and a nasty cut near my elbow started to throb now that the adrenaline was fading. My cheek ached whenever I moved, my shoulder pulsed from where one of the guys had grabbed me, and my head was pounding like a relentless hammer. I had never been more grateful for the simple act of sitting down, though even that was becoming an uncomfortable ordeal, my body shifting from one ache to another like a tenant disputing its lease. But surprisingly, none of that was what weighed on my mind the most.

I found myself wondering how many of them made it out. How many didn’t?

My fingers instinctively curled tighter around Lorenzo’s hand, and he responded by squeezing back, his thumb gently brushing over my knuckles. He hadn’t said much since we left the building, but he hadn’t stopped touching me either.

Every turn the car took, his shoulder would brush against mine, and whenever I shifted in my seat, I caught him glancing my way, as if checking to see if I was falling apart silently. I appreciated his concern, but I also wanted to tell him that staring at me every thirty seconds wouldn’t prevent a concussion, though I figured that’d probably be a stupid thing to say to a guy who just witnessed an explosion at his gala.

So I kept quiet. For once, the world was better off without my commentary.

"Dracula?"

His gaze snapped to me. "Yes, tesoro?"

"How many people didn’t get out?"

The question hung heavy between us, more substantial than the silence that had enveloped the car since our escape.

He looked down at our hands, then met my eyes, and I could see something dark flicker in his expression. He held my gaze, but he didn’t offer the comforting lie I had secretly hoped for. 𝘧𝓇ℯℴ𝓂

"We don’t know yet."

"How many were still inside?"

"Alex."

"Just...tell me."

"We don’t have a confirmed number," he replied softly. "Some of our men were still helping guests through the east corridor when the explosion hit. Others were outside with those who had evacuated. Timothy is trying to reach the remaining teams, but communications are spotty."

I swallowed hard, staring at the blood under my nails. "So, there really could be people who—"

"Yes."

He didn’t need to finish that thought, and I was grateful for his restraint. I nodded as if I’d gotten a perfectly reasonable answer to a perfectly reasonable question, then turned to look out the window, unable to face the expression on his face.

There was no accusation in his eyes, but I could still feel the guilt swelling inside me, thick and suffocating. After all, I was the one those men had wanted to take, Lorenzo was their target, and everyone else was just an unfortunate obstacle in our path.

I knew what Lorenzo would say if I voiced those thoughts. He’d tell me it wasn’t my fault. That the ones responsible had made their own choices, and that I couldn’t have prevented something I didn’t know was happening until it was nearly too late.

And maybe he was right, but understanding that logically didn’t quite match up with the emotional turmoil inside me. My mind comprehended every word, while the rest of me felt convinced I should’ve done more.

I should have found Lorenzo sooner. I should have warned everyone sooner. Somehow, I should’ve discovered where the bomb was hidden, carried every guest out on my back, and chased after those who set it up to personally explain that murder isn’t exactly a fun hobby. Instead, I just ran until my legs gave out, and now I was in a car watching the city pass by as if nothing had happened. That thought made my stomach twist.

Lorenzo lifted our joined hands and pressed a brief kiss against my knuckles.

"You don’t have to solve everything tonight," he murmured.

I looked at him. "That sounds suspiciously like something people say to stop someone from asking too many questions."

"Then think of it as a rare moment of generosity on my part."

Despite everything, a faint breath escaped me, maybe a laugh if I had the energy to follow through. "You’re terrible at comforting people."

"I’m told I have other qualities."

"By whom? Your men? Are they contractually obligated to say nice things about you?"

The light banter should’ve helped, but the moment faded quickly, leaving me alone with the same exhaustion and those haunting images.

Lorenzo seemed to get that there was nothing he could say to make them vanish, so he just kept holding my hand while the car continued on toward whatever destination Timothy had arranged. For now, that was all I could handle.

The clinic was tucked away outside the busiest part of Paris, behind a tall iron gate and a line of trees that mostly hid it from the road. It wasn’t a hospital in the traditional sense...definitely not one interested in advertising itself.

The building was modern and discreet, with pale stone walls, wide windows, and enough security at the entrance to suggest that its patients sometimes arrived with issues better kept off a regular reception desk.

Given that I had just spent the evening being kidnapped by men working for a shadowy criminal obsessed with my husband, I figured I wouldn’t question the place’s business model.

As soon as the car stopped, two medical staff rushed toward us with a wheelchair and a medical bag, followed by a doctor in a white coat who looked like someone had interrupted a perfectly fine evening for him. I could relate. My evening had also been disrupted, though I suspected his involved far fewer explosions.

"Mr. Castelli," the doctor greeted Lorenzo with a thick French accent, glancing between us with professional concern. "We’ve prepared two examination rooms, but we’ve been informed your husband may have several injuries."

"My Omega will be examined immediately," Lorenzo replied, stepping out of the car and turning to help me. "Check for injuries, the effects of whatever drug was used on him, and a possible concussion. I want a full assessment."

"I can hear you, you know," I muttered as Lorenzo helped me out.

His gaze shifted to my face. "Wonderful. Then you heard the instructions."

I wanted to argue, but the ground beneath me had started to misbehave, so I decided that dignity could wait until someone stopped the floor from shifting.

The medical team took me inside, and the bright lights intensified my headache. The clinic smelled of antiseptic and fresh linen, and everything was irritatingly pristine. I found myself glaring at the spotless white walls with a bit of resentment.

It felt wrong that the world could be this clean while a building full of people was still burning somewhere behind us.

They settled me on an examination bed and began checking my blood pressure, pupils, pulse, and oxygen levels, moving with the brisk efficiency of professionals used to handling worse than a guy with a torn sleeve and a bad attitude.

One nurse carefully peeled off the remnants of my jacket while another inspected the cuts on my hands and arms, cleaning the dirt and dried blood with a solution that stung enough to make me wince.

"Sorry," she said.

"No, you’re doing great. I was just hoping for a little more pain before midnight, you know?"

She shot me a look that suggested she had dealt with less obnoxious patients before, and I couldn’t blame her.

The doctor examined the swelling on my cheek, asked me a series of questions about the kidnapping, and shone a small light into my eyes, which I followed like a tired cat chasing a boring laser.

When I explained the drug situation, his demeanor shifted, and he ordered additional tests while warning me that the effects could linger for hours.

"You might feel dizziness, nausea, fatigue, difficulty focusing, or headaches," he explained. "Given your injuries and the circumstances, I also want to monitor you for a possible mild concussion. If symptoms worsen...confusion, increased drowsiness, or a severe headache, we’ll need to investigate further."

"Fucking fantastic," I murmured. "A list of new hobbies."

"Alex," Lorenzo said from beside the bed.

I glanced at him. "What? I’m just trying to build a good rapport with the medical staff here."

The doctor wisely stayed out of that conversation.