Chapter 15 #2
I don’t reply. Because every time someone mentions “his daughter,” my mind goes straight back to Eleonora, the way she came undone for me, the way she looked at me like she wanted more.
This obsession is becoming a problem.
A very dangerous problem.
We’re deep inside the warehouse, checking the latest shipment. My men are working, cutting open the sealed bricks, testing purity, repackaging the pure product into smaller, street-ready units. The sharp chemical smell of cocaine fills the air.
“I need you to…”
I'm interrupted as gunshots suddenly rip through the air.
Bullets shatter the windows. One of my workers drops instantly, a red bloom exploding across his chest. Another round slams into the wall inches from my head, sending concrete dust flying.
“Get down!” I roar, already pulling my gun.
Chaos erupts. More gunfire explodes from outside as masked men storm through the side entrances, weapons blazing. My men return fire instantly, the warehouse turning into a warzone. Shell casings clatter across the concrete.
I duck behind a stack of crates and start picking targets, two quick shots drop the first attacker, then a third.
I move fast, staying low, firing as I advance. One of the invaders gets too close, I put two rounds in his chest and one in his head. Another tries to flank us. I spin and shoot him in the throat. Blood sprays.
A bullet burns across my upper arm, white-hot pain flares as it tears through muscle. I grunt but keep moving, switching the gun to my other hand. I drop two more attackers before Marco appears beside me, firing steadily.
Bodies drop. My men are falling too, good men. But we push them back. One by one, the invaders go down until only one remains, cornered near the loading dock.
He looks at us, eyes wide with panic, then raises his own gun to his temple and pulls the trigger. His body collapses in a heap.
Silence falls, broken only by the groans of the wounded.
“Fuck.”
“Well, there goes our chance of finding out who sent them,” Marco mutters.
I look around. Four of my men are dead. Several more are bleeding badly.
“Take the injured to the doctor,” I tell Marco, pressing a hand to my bleeding arm.
Marco eyes the wound. “What about you?”
“It’s a flesh wound. I’ll handle it myself. Find out who the fuck sent them. This has Gallo’s handwriting all over it.”
I get home well after midnight, still covered in blood, gunpowder, and smoke. My arm is throbbing, but I ignore it.
As I walk down the hallway toward my bedroom, I notice light spilling from under the adjoining door to Eleonora’s room. She’s still awake.
For some reason I can’t explain, I stop. I open the door quietly and look in. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed in the soft lamplight, knees drawn up, staring into space. Her dark hair falls loosely over one shoulder. She looks beautiful. Fragile. Lost in thought.
I stand there longer than I should, just watching her. She has no idea I’m here. This woman is messing with my head. She’s been here only a few days and she’s already under my skin, in my thoughts, in my blood.
I should want to use her and discard her. Instead, I keep thinking about how she felt coming apart in my arms earlier. How she said my name when she shattered.
I step into her bedroom and Eleonora turns at the sound. The moment her eyes land on me, bloodied, shirtless, with a fresh bullet graze across my upper arm, she gasps.
“What happened?” she demands, voice filled with something that sounds dangerously close to worry.
“Are you okay?”
For a split second, I’m thrown. She actually looks like she cares. Or is she just a good actress?
“You were shot?”
“It’s a flesh wound,” I say, voice rough. “Nothing serious.”
“You need to see a doctor,” she insists, eyes wide.
I ignore her and walk to the door connecting our bedrooms, she follows me as I head into my bedroom and then to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit from the cabinet on the way.
I head to my bedroom and sit down on the bed.
“Come here and stitch it up.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Me? I’ve never done that before.”
“You can do it.” I pat the bed beside me. “Sit.”
She hesitates, then slowly walks over and sits next to me. Her hands are trembling slightly as she opens the kit. I can smell her, that warm vanilla scent mixed with something sweeter that’s purely her. It’s driving me insane.
“Clean it first,” I tell her, my voice lower than I intend. “Use the antiseptic.”
Her fingers brush my arm as she works. They’re soft, tentative. Every light touch sends electricity racing across my skin.
I watch her face, the way her brows furrow in concentration, the way her lips part slightly as she focuses. Her hair falls forward, brushing my shoulder.
Without thinking, I reach up and tuck it gently behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. She freezes for a second, her breath catching. Our eyes meet.
I want to kiss her. I want to pull her into my lap and taste that smart mouth until she forgets every reason she should hate me.
“Press harder,” I murmur, guiding her hand. “You won’t hurt me.”
She swallows visibly. Her fingers tremble as she cleans the wound. The proximity is torture. Her breasts brush against my arm every time she leans in. Her breath fans across my chest. I’m rock hard under my slacks and fighting every instinct not to drag her closer.
I instruct her on how to stitch the wound, and she starts stitching. Her hands shake at first, but after a few moments she finds a rhythm.
I barely feel the needle, I’m too focused on the way her teeth sink into her lower lip, the way her dark lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the way her tank top has slipped slightly off one shoulder.
“You’re doing good,” I say, voice rough.
She doesn’t answer, but her cheeks flush pink. The tension between us is so thick it feels like it could snap at any second.
When she finally ties off the last stitch and cuts the thread, she sits back slightly. We’re so close. Her lips are right there. I can see her pulse hammering in her throat. I lean in, almost on instinct—
She stands up abruptly, stepping back.
“You should… be more careful next time,” she says quickly, voice unsteady. “Try not to get yourself killed.”
Then she turns and practically flees from my room, closing the adjoining door behind her with a soft click.
I sit there on the edge of the bed, arm throbbing, cock aching, staring at the closed door.
I need to get my shit together.
Because if I don’t, Eleonora Caruso is going to be the ruin of me.