It was so fast. A blur of dark suits and brutal, efficient violence. This time, his men, standing far away, came inside.
They didn't fight; they dismantled him. A fist sank into his stomach, and the air immediately left Pascal's lungs in a rush. Another blow caught him on the side of the head. I heard the wet, ugly sound of his knuckles meeting Pascal's cheekbone.
Pascal went down and folded like a paper bag, gasping on the floor, and they didn't stop. A kick to his ribs. The sound was like someone dropping a bag of gravel.
"Stop! Please! I'll do anything, just stop!" I was on my knees, sobbing, the world reduced to the horrific symphony of impact and Pascal's choked gasps.
Rocas finally raised a hand. The beating ceased. He knelt down, his polished shoes inches from Pascal's bloody face.
Then he stood over him like a predator surveying his prey. "You touch her again, you even look at her wrong, and the next conversation we have will be at the bottom of the river." He spoke quietly, but every word was a promise.
He then turned to me. He reached out, and I flinched. He paused, his hand hovering in the air before he gently took my hand and pressed the cool, waxy orchid, a flower, into my palm. His touch was surprisingly gentle.
"He's not the man for you," Rocas said, his honey-colored eyes holding mine. "A man who loves you doesn't send you away. He protects you, even from himself."
"A warning for a warning," he whispered, almost lovingly. Then he stood, brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his sleeve, and walked out. His men followed. The front door clicked shut. The house was silent, save for my ragged breaths and a terrible, wet, wheezing sound from the floor.
"Pascal." I scrambled to him, my hands gently touching over his broken form, not knowing where to touch. His face was a mess of blood and swelling. One eye was already sealed shut. His breath hitched with every inhalation, a sharp, pained intake.
"S'okay, Mili," he said weakly, a bubble of blood forming and popping on his lips. "Tell him… tell him to stay away."
My mind, which had been a screaming void, snapped into fear. This was a survival scheme.
"Don't talk. Just breathe. Try to breathe, my love." I grabbed the throw blanket from the couch, bundling it to support his head and neck. My phone was in my hand. 9-1-1.
"My fiancé," I said, my voice shockingly steady. "He's been assaulted. Multiple blows to the head and torso. He's conscious but disoriented. He's having trouble breathing. 14 Willow Creek Drive. Hurry. Please, hurry."
I didn't hang up. I put it on speaker, set it down, and held his hand. "They're coming, Pascal. Just hold on. Look at me. Look into my eyes."
The wait was an eternity compressed into three minutes. I heard the siren, a wailing promise of salvation, growing closer. When the paramedics burst in, I was a robot, reciting facts. "Assault. Kicks to the ribs. Possible pneumothorax. His name is Pascal."
They moved with practiced efficiency, stabilizing his neck and slipping an oxygen mask over his face. I gave them his date of birth and his allergies while they held his uninjured hand; my thumb was stroking his knuckles.
They carried him into the ambulance. "You can ride up front," one of them said.
The ride to the hospital was a blur of streetlights and the frantic beating of my own heart. I called his mother, my voice breaking only once. "There's been an incident. He's hurt. We're going to St. Jude's."
In the bright, sterile chaos of the ER, they took him away from me. A nurse with kind eyes guided me to a plastic chair in the waiting room. The smell of antiseptic couldn't erase the memory of Rocas's cologne or the stain of Pascal's blood on my hands.
I sat there, shaking, staring at some of the dried blood on my skin. I saw him standing there, my brave, foolish, wonderful man, telling a monster to stay away from me. I saw him fall. I heard the sound of his ribs cracking.
Hours later, a doctor in blue scrubs found me. "He's stable," she said, and my knees buckled with relief. "Two fractured ribs, a punctured lung we've drained, a severe concussion, and a lot of bruising. He's a very lucky man. He'll be in a great deal of pain, but he will recover."
They let me see him. He was in a hospital bed, covered in white; his face was a canvas of purple and blue. Tubes and wires snaked from his arms, but his one good eye was open, and it found me.
I walked to the bedside, my legs weak, and carefully, so carefully, took his hand.
He tried to smile, a painful, lopsided twitch of his lips. The oxygen mask swallowed his voice, but I heard him.
"Tell him," he whispered again, his gaze unwavering. "Tell him to stay away from my girl, because I will die for you."
I brought his hand to my lips, tears finally streaming down my face, washing away the last traces of the nightmare. He had challenged the devil because of me. And in that sterile, quiet room, I was holding the hand of the bravest man I knew.
I was confused at this point; I didn't know what to do. My head was filled with deep thoughts. I called my mom and my best friend, Becky, because I needed someone to talk to. They promised to meet me at the hospital. I know Pascal wronged me in an offense that seems unforgettable, but this suffering he was going through was way too much.
The Mafia never forgives nor forgets. How will Pascal escape from this disaster that's about to befall him? I know him too well; he will never give up. He wi
ll be ready to fight until the last drop of his blood.