“Hear that, Brodes? The ambulance is here.”

He doesn’t acknowledge my words.

“Brody?”

“Noelle,” Drake whispers, taking my hands from his face as paramedics arrive in the room. “Let them do their job.”

“He isn’t talking,” I whisper hoarsely. “Why isn’t he talking to me?”

Oh God—Brody. The tears spill over my eyes as an angry sadness like nothing I’ve ever felt fills my body. From my head to my toes, I’m torn between sobbing hysterically or getting in a car and driving around to find the motherfucker who shot my brother.

But I’m shaking. Everything. And nothing makes it better. Not Drake’s arms wrapping around me from behind to hold me back or feeling Devin take my hand or seeing the paramedics ease my unconscious and bleeding brother onto a stretcher.

The oxygen mask doesn’t make it better.

Nothing does.

My muscles are so tense and I’m breathing through my tears, but it doesn’t matter because it’s nothing compared to what he’s feeling.

My baby brother.

My baby brother.

My best fucking friend, even above Bek. My tormentor and the little macho guy who always fancied himself my protector, even when I didn’t need protecting.

Brody.

He’s wheeled out. I don’t know how long it’s been. But he’s still not awake. He’s still bleeding. He’s still shot and bleeding and unconscious and completely and utterly defenseless.

Defenseless.

Something he’s never been.

I cover my face with my face, and my knees buckle. I’d go down if it weren’t for Drake’s already steady hold on me. He grips me tighter and turns me into him, and my face buries into his chest, and the fear inside me breaks free.

Hold a gun to my face and I won’t tremble. Put your finger on the trigger and I won’t run. Shoot me and I won’t cry.

But my brother? My family?

No. Fuck. No.

I push away from Drake and press my palms against my cheeks, begging the tears to stop. Drake refuses to let me go, instead touching my back. I’m thankful because my legs are weak. They’re Jell-O and ready to break at any point, but instead of letting them go, I find my brother’s eyes.

Devin looks how I feel. His cheeks are red, and even he has the glint of a tear in his eye. But his fists are clenched, his shoulders drawn back, his jaw tight. Behind those tears hovering in his dark eyes is anger. Just anger. The kind of anger any sane person would run from.

It doesn’t scare me.

I feel it too.

I feel that inhuman anger that makes you see everything with a tinge of red, that makes you want to act on your impulses no matter the consequences.

The kind of anger that would make murder possible.

After all, la famiglia è tutto. Family is everything.

Fuck with me. Don’t fuck with my family.

And certainly not my little brother.

“I’m calling Dad,” Dev manages to croak out. He storms out of the room as the first police car pulls up outside.

“Noelle,” Drake says quietly, stepping in front of me. “We ain’t goin’ near Vince’s. Whatever this is, it’s gonna have to find us, cupcake. No way am I riskin’ anyone else gettin’ hurt.”

“I know. I wasn’t even thinkin’ of it.”

“Sweetheart.” He whispers it, touching the side of my face and bringing my eyes to his. “He’ll be okay. He’s one of the three toughest guys I know, and all of them have the same surname.”

“I know. But that’s...Brody,” I finish lamely. “I couldn’t protect him. I should protect him.”

Which is exactly why Dev is pissed the hell off, too.

“Hey, no. Hey.” He forces my eyes back to his. “No. No guilt. I’ll take you to the hospital and you can meet your family there.”

“I’ll go later. When I know he’s okay.” I blow out a long, quiet breath. “This... Finding out who did this is important. I have a crazy grandmother who will want to know their address within the next thirty minutes so she can dish out some good ol’ revenge, Italian-style.”

“You need to be with your family.”

“No.” This time, I meet his eyes with steely determination. “I need to find out who did this, because this shit just got fuckin’ personal.”

“Why are you here?”

I look up at Bek, a deep breath filling my lungs. “Because I can’t be at that hospital. I can’t sit there in those goddamn stale, white rooms and wait to hear what’s wrong with my brother.”

“So, you’d rather be here, at seven p.m., waiting for a phonecall?”

Slowly, I nod. I would be. Not because I don’t love my brother or care. I do. God, I’ve cried four times this afternoon since Drake reluctantly brought me here. That was before he drove to his house, brought my car to me, then walked back to get his car again.

It’s easier to be here and focus on work. Focus on this goddamn something that got my brother hurt—the same something that makes me want to drive out to Nick’s studio and pin his sorry-son-of-a-bitch ass against the wall until he spills exactly what could lead to us solving this murder.

I wish I could be at the hospital. I wish I could be there, holding their hands, waiting like they are, but I know that, the second Brody wakes up—if he wakes up from the surgery they took him into five hours ago—he’d look at me and ask me what the hell I was doing at the hospital and didn’t I have shoes to buy?

Although I do agree. It’s strange that I’m not there. I’ve done nothing but flick through the same pages and try to drink the same cold coffee for the last two and a half hours. My phone is on ring for the first time in weeks, and it’s plugged into a charger and lying screen up on my desk.

Every time it lights up, my heart stops.

I should be at the hospital. I should be waiting there. I should know exactly what’s happening and where everyone is and how he is.

But I still think he’d yell at me and ask me why I’m hanging around there.

So this... This isn’t for me. These lame hours I’m spending in limbo, waiting for a word from my family, are for him. Every useless page flip and mouse click and lift of a mug of cold coffee.

It’s easier.

I have to keep repeating that. It’s easier. I have to keep telling myself that because then I might believe it. I might believe that it really is easier to be miles away from him when he’s suffering so badly and fighting so hard to wake up.

I have to tell myself that, too. That he’s fighting to wake up. That he’s fighting for everything, because I don’t know where that bullet hit. It could have skimmed arteries or pierced his major organs.

I. Don’t. Know.

“Noelle!” Bek snaps. “You need to go there. Let me drive you to the hospital.”

I shake my head and bury my face in my hands. “I have to figure this out, Bek. I have to make this right. I have to find who did this to Brody and Natalie and Vince.”

“Tomorrow,” she urges me, slamming her fist onto my desk. “They’ll still be here tomorrow. The white Cadillac the neighbors said they saw was found in the woods outside of town an hour ago. The cops are running DNA testing on it and hoping the plate will trigger the minds of some neighbors. There’s nothing you can do sitting here and staring into space.”

I’ve never wanted Drake to storm into my office more than I do right in this second.

But he doesn’t.

“Okay,” I whisper, giving in. “Take me.”

Bek walks around my desk and takes my hands, helping me up. I feel completely exhausted and lame. There isn’t a part of me not burning with worry for Brody.

I rub my hand down my face in an effort to wake myself up before we reach the top of the stairs. Bek, being the best friend ever, already brought me flat shoes so I don’t have to worry about takking a sleepy tumble down the stairs and into her car.

“Oh, here’s your mail from today. This one was delivered late.” She stops us by Grecia’s office. “I told her I’d give it to you before I sent her home,” she explains, handing me the pile.