But Franco couldn't run. Shit.
"Arrest the woman. Take her for questioning. Take the man to the hospital."
Franco and I yelled at the same time: "No! I have to go with him." "She has to come with me."
The detective pursed his lips, deliberating. Finally, he muttered, "Fine. Take them both to the hospital. I expect to be able to interview them in a few hours."
I bit my lip, fighting the horror that had become my life as my arms were wrenched behind my back and the cold lick of handcuffs settled around my wrists. Franco wasn't cuffed, only barred by two large policemen, caging him in with black uniforms and unclipped guns.
"Come on," a policeman grumbled. I trembled, fighting another wave of nausea. Once again-this was my fault. It was my breasts strangers had seen. My little exposé that ended with us being marched away like heathens.
Then livid anger filled me. If these men turned out to be the reason Q died, I would hunt down every last one and murder them in their sleep.
I wouldn't let them stop me from finding him. I'd become a wanted fugitive before I let that happen.
Franco looked over his shoulder. His emerald eyes looked like terrible glinting gems. "Ne dis rien. Tout est sous contrôle."Don't say a word. I have everything under control.
I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe that whatever plan was in action it would save Q even while we rotted in some Italian cell. But pessimism was my new friend and the black void of grief tempted, called to me.
We were stuffed into the lift side by side. Franco bent his head to my ear. "He isn't lost, Tess. He put a tracker in your engagement ring-did you not think he'd do the same precaution for himself? Especially when he knew he'd stirred up the attention of fuckwits who would try to kill him?"
I froze, his hot breath on my ear giving me much needed information.
I kept my voice low, aware of the six other men in the lift with us. "He's got a tracker in a ring?" Q didn't wear jewellery. And we weren't married yet so he didn't have a wedding ring.
Franco shook his head. "Not a ring. Deeper than that." He tapped the underside of his wrist, raising an eyebrow. The puzzle slotted into place.
Oh, my God. Q wore a tracker.
Not in jewellery or clothing or something that could easily be removed. He'd gone further than that. He'd given himself the best chance at being found even if they stripped him naked and threw away all his possessions.
He'd tagged himself like a pet-micro-chipped his body so his army of guards could follow his trail and bring him home.
He wasn't lost.
It was just up to us to find him before it was too late.
Time had become my number one nemesis.
Four hours.
Four long, excruciating, teeth-clenching hours.
Every second drifted me further away from Q. Every minute built a wall I would have to clamber over to find him. Is this how he felt when searching for me? This crippling helplessness?
Tick …
Tock …
Franco had been rushed to surgery to reattach his thumb. He refused to allow them to put him under, settling instead with a local anaesthetic to endure the procedure.
His list of injuries curdled my stomach.
Mild concussion. Dislocated shoulder. Twisted kneecap. Missing thumb. Not including the multiple contusions, bruises, and scrapes from the assholes who'd almost killed him in order to get to Q.
I lived an entire lifetime in those four hours. More than one. Multiple.
I went insane-hemmed in a private room, barricaded by two police officers waiting for Franco. At least they'd removed the handcuffs, but I was no less a prisoner.
My mind was my enemy, constantly flinging horror and torture of Q's demise. I finally gritted my teeth, humming nonsense under my breath, just to keep my brain occupied and not conjuring such awfulness.
Three times the officers tried to question me. Three times I refused. I wouldn't talk-not until I knew what Franco wanted me to say. I wasn't privy to what was in motion outside our sad little group. I didn't want to ruin Q's chances any more than I already had by being so reckless in a foreign country and getting arrested.
I looked up as the white door swung open. Franco was wheeled into the room by an orderly. One arm was in a sling, leading to a thick bandage around his hand. Only the tips of his fingers showed.
His face was black and yellow as bruises painted him like a watercolour.
I shot off the bed where I'd been going mad with waiting. The door swung closed behind the man in scrubs. "Are you okay? Did it work?" I looked at the bandage, eyeing it for any sign of a thumb tip. My eyes widened. "But there's no … "