HER ITALIAN BODYGUARD

12. ATTEMPTED MURDER

CHAPTER TWELVE

ATTEMPTED MURDER

There’s something strangely liberating about being drunk. Not the party kind of drunk. The hollow, aching kind. The kind that numbs just enough of the pain to let you breathe, and then smashes it all back down with twice the force.

I probably shouldn’t have had that much to drink. But I stopped caring somewhere between my third tequila shot and my fifth glass of champagne.

After the gala, my mother-in-law had smoothly convinced both Mark and her husband to leave ahead of us, just two drivers would be enough for “the ladies,” she’d said. Always orchestrating things, even in moments like these. Of all things I ever thought would making close to my mother in-law, our husbands being thankless bastards was not my bingo card this year.

Now, I’m stumbling out of the empty venue alongside her and Ron, the echo of our heels on marble floors the only sound in the vast, hollow space. Ron’s driver is already waiting. He climbs into the back seat without saying much, just giving me a tired, knowing glance before the car pulls away. A silent farewell between two people who understood too much about being second choices.

Mrs. Washington doesn’t say goodbye. She simply slips into her sleek black car with her usual grace, her driver pulling off seconds later, leaving me alone under the buzzing street lamps of the empty parking lot. I blink blearily around, trying to remember where my car is.

Then I remember, I didn’t drive here. Mark insisted on a chauffeur. Of course he did. Always in control. But where is he now? I stumble a few steps in heels that feel like knives before sinking to the cold concrete floor of the corridor just outside the building. The night air is sharp against my flushed cheeks. That’s when the weight of it all hits me again.

“Why the f**k would you do this to me, Mark?” I whisper. Then louder. “Why the f**k would you do this to me?!”

The words rip from my throat like glass.

And then the tears come; hot, angry, blinding. They spill down my cheeks in messy trails as I yank my phone from my purse. I don’t know what I intended to do; call him? Scream at him again? Check if he texted?

It doesn’t matter. Because in one breathless, furious moment, I hurl it to the ground. The screen shatters with a sound that feels almost satisfying. It breaks apart on the concrete, tiny pieces flying like sharp confetti; just like my life. So fragmented and pointless. I press my fists into my eyes, but the sobs come anyway. Loud, messy, unrelenting. My shoulders shake as I cry harder than I have in years. Maybe ever. There’s no hiding anymore, not from myself, not from the pain. Tonight, I let myself break completely. I don’t know how long I sit there before a voice cuts through the dark.

“Ma’am? Should I call you a cab?” a security guard asks gently, his voice hesitant, unsure. He probably doesn’t know whether to call for help or just back away slowly.

I lift my head slowly, blinking back tears, my mascara a ruin down my face. I must look like something straight out of a tragic soap opera.

“I’d appreciate that,” I slur, my voice thick with tears.

He nods, quickly pulling out his phone. The last thing I want is for our chauffeur to find me like this. A shattered woman on the ground. I don’t want pity. I don’t want another lecture from Mark. I don’t want to feel the judgment of the staff whose job it is to pretend everything’s okay. Where the hell was he, anyway? Maybe that’s the most telling part.

Less than ten minutes later, I’m in the back of a cab, slurring my address to the driver. Everything after that is a blur; just scattered fragments pieced together by the fog of alcohol and exhaustion. There’s the soft thud of the car door closing. The vague sound of Mark’s voice arguing with the driver. The feel of his hand on my arm, firm but not unkind, as he helps me out of the cab and into the house. I think he asked why I didn’t use the family car. I think I mumbled something. I think he also scolded me for having my phone off but by then, my head had already started to throb, and his voice had become background noise.

I remember one clear thing though: the relief of sinking into the plush mattress in the guest bedroom. It swallowed me whole. I was asleep before I could even get both shoes off. I don’t know how long I’m out before the shouting starts.

It pulls me violently from sleep, dragging me out of a dark, numb pit into a full-blown headache and the dizzying nausea of a vicious hangover. My tongue feels like sandpaper. My limbs ache. My brain is pounding. And Mark is yelling.

“I don’t f*****g care. I need a full report now!” His voice is sharp, clipped, laced with panic.

I squint at the figure pacing at the foot of the bed. He’s shirtless, wearing only pajama bottoms, his hair disheveled like he hasn’t slept. A phone is pressed to his ear as he stalks the floor like a man ready to combust. Then he turns and sees me.

Everything stills. The phone call ends in a snap, and before I can sit up or even register the situation fully, he’s at my side, grabbing and pulling me tight against his chest. I tense at first, confused by the sudden contact, but his arms wrap around me like a man afraid I might vanish if he lets go.

“I’m so f*****g glad you took the cab yesterday night,” he whispers, voice shaking.

His words barely register at first through the hangover fog. “What?” I rasp. “What are you talking about?”

He leans back just enough to look me in the eye. There’s something in his gaze I haven’t seen in a long time. Raw fear.

“The car,” he says, swallowing hard. “Your car exploded.”

I blink. “What?”

“There was a bomb. A homemade device planted underneath,” he says, barely able to get the words out. “It went off about five minutes after the cab took you. The chauffeur didn’t make it.”

I feel the blood drain from my face.

“What are you saying?” I whisper, trying to push away from him, needing air, space; logic. But he holds on tighter.

“Somebody tried to kill you, Gina.”

The room spins. The hangover is instantly drowned out by a deeper, colder panic. I could’ve died. I should’ve died. If I hadn’t been too drunk to care, if I’d done what I normally do and gotten into that car-

“Are you sure?” I breathe, my voice barely there.

Mark nods, jaw tight, eyes glinting with something close to fury. “The investigation just started, but this wasn’t an accident. Someone planned this. Targeted you.”

Everything crashes into me at once. From the betrayal, the breakdown, the fake smiles, the gala, Evelyn’s baby. And now this. Death. It’s like the universe is laughing in my face.

“Gina,” Mark’s voice breaks through again, gentler this time. “I swear, I’m going to find out who did this. I’ll protect you.”

But I’m not listening anymore. I’m staring past him, into nothing, heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. Because someone wants me dead. And I have no idea who.