Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Dante
The bedroom door feels like a prison wall. I've been shot before. Twice in the shoulder, once in the thigh. A bullet near the kidney isn't going to keep me flat on my back.
I push myself up. The pain hits like a freight train, white-hot and blinding. My stitches pull. Something warm trickles down my side.
Don't care.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The room tilts. I grab the nightstand, knuckles going white, and force myself vertical.
One step. Two. The floor feels like it's made of water.
I reach the door and pull it open.
Marina stands in the hallway, phone in her hand.
She rolls her eyes.
"I don't care." Her voice is flat. "Die. Do whatever the hell you need to do. Bleed out on my carpet. I'll send the cleaning bill to Lorenzo."
"Well—"
"No." She holds up a hand. "You don't get to talk right now.
Lorenzo just told me we might need to stay put longer than a day.
Maybe a week. The cartel is watching the roads and the airfields.
He's sending guns. Two Glocks. And bullets.
And he's doubling the security detail to eight men around the building. "
She's pacing now, her words tumbling out fast and sharp.
"Eight men, Dante. Eight armed men watching my apartment building."
I lean against the doorframe.
"And there's a special knock pattern now," she continues. "Three quick, pause, two slow. Like we're in some kind of spy movie. Except it's not a movie. It's my life. My apartment. My—"
"Marina."
"—carefully rebuilt existence that you just demolished in one night. I had a routine. I had a job. I had plants that I watered on a schedule. And now I have cartel hitmen and Glock 19s and—"
"No one is going to hurt you."
She stops pacing. Turns to face me.
"What?"
"No one." I push off the doorframe. Stand on my own two feet even though it costs me. "Is going to hurt you."
She moves toward me. Not away. Toward.
Her chin lifts. Her eyes blaze.
"You already did."
The words hit harder than the bullet.
"You already hurt me, Dante." She's close now. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her blue-green eyes. Close enough to count the freckles across her nose. "I'm stuck in here with you. In my apartment—"
I touch her chin.
Just my fingertips. Light as air. Barely there.
She goes still.
"I would use my body as a shield." My voice comes out rough. Raw. "As a bulletproof vest. As a wall between you and anyone who tries to get through that door."
Her breath catches.
"No one is going to hurt you." I tilt her face up. Force her to look at me. "Not the cartel. Not anyone."
Her lips part.
I look at them. Can't help it. Soft pink. Slightly chapped. The bottom one fuller than the top.
I've thought about those lips for two years. Wondered what they'd feel like. What they'd taste like. Whether she'd kiss me back or slap me across the face.
Probably both.
Her eyes drop to my mouth. Just for a second. A fraction of a heartbeat.
Then she steps back.
The distance between us feels like miles.
"You're bleeding through your bandage." Her voice is steady now. Controlled. "Sit down before you fall down."
I don't move.
"Dante." She crosses her arms. "I'm not carrying you again. You weigh a thousand pounds and I have a bad hand."
"I know."
"Then sit down."
"In a minute."
"Now."
"Make me."
She stares at me. I stare back.
The standoff lasts three seconds. Five. Ten.
Then she throws her hands up.
"Fine. Bleed to death. See if I care." She turns toward the kitchen. "I'm bringing water. If you're still conscious when I get it, you can have some."
I watch her go. The way she moves. The tension in her shoulders.
I make it to the couch before my legs give out. The cushions are soft.
She's beautiful when she's furious.
She's beautiful all the time.
I press my hand against my side. The pain grounds me. Keeps me present. Keeps me from doing something stupid like crossing the room and finishing what I started.
Her chin in my hand. Her lips inches from mine.
Christ.
Marina returns with a glass of water. She holds it out like she's offering poison.
"Drink."
I take it. Our fingers don't touch. She's careful about that.
"You can have your bedroom back." I gesture toward the hallway with the glass. "I'll stay on the couch."
She blinks. "What?"
"The couch." I take a sip. The water is cold. Good. "I can lay here. You don't need to sleep out here anymore."
"You can barely stand."
"I'm sitting now."
She stares at me like I'm an idiot not understanding basic things. "Dr. Marchetti said three days of bed rest. Three days. It's been—" She checks her phone. "—less than twenty-four hours."
"I've had worse."
"That's not the flex you think it is."
I almost smile.
She's standing in the middle of her living room, arms crossed, hip cocked to one side. The afternoon light catches the brown in her hair. Makes it look almost red.
"The couch is too short for you," she says. "Your feet hang off the end."
"I noticed."
"And the cushions are lumpy."
"Also noticed."
"And you'll probably tear your stitches in your sleep and bleed all over my upholstery."
"Probably."
She throws her hands up. "Then why would you—"
"Because you haven't slept."
That stops her.
"I can see it," I say.
"I was just—"
"You were scared." I set the water glass on the coffee table. "You're still scared. And you can't sleep because I'm in your bed and there's a cartel looking for me and eight armed men watching your building."
She doesn't deny it.
"So take your bedroom back." I lean into the couch cushions. They are lumpy. She wasn't wrong. "I'll be fine out here."
Marina studies me for a long moment. Her eyes move from my face to my bandaged side to my bare feet hanging off the armrest.
"You look like a giant trying to sleep in a dollhouse."
"Thanks."
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
She uncrosses her arms. Crosses them again. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
"If you tear your stitches," she says slowly, "I'm not sewing you back up."
"Fair."
"And if you bleed on my couch, you're buying me a new one."
"Also fair."
"And if you die in the middle of the night, I'm leaving your body for Lorenzo to deal with."
"Wouldn't expect anything less."
She huffs out a breath. It's almost a laugh. Almost.
"You're impossible."
"I've been told."
"By who? Your many admirers?"
"By Lorenzo. Usually when I'm doing something he doesn't like."
"Which is what? Breathing?"
"Sometimes."
She does laugh then. Just a small one. A surprised sound that escapes before she can catch it.
I file it away. Add it to the collection. Marina laughing in the Sartori kitchen two years ago. Marina's face when she opened the door and found me bleeding on her doorstep.
That last one isn't a good memory. But I keep it anyway.
"Fine." She picks up the empty water glass. "You can have the couch. But I'm checking on you every two hours."
"You don't have to—"
"Every two hours, Dante." She heads toward the kitchen. "My apartment, my rules."
"You're bossy," I say.
"And you're a terrible patient." She dries the glass with a towel. "We all have our flaws."
"Being bossy isn't a flaw."
"You're also stubborn," she says. "And reckless. And apparently incapable of following basic medical instructions."
"Anything else?"
"You showed up at my door bleeding to death instead of going to a hospital like a normal person."
"Hospitals ask questions."
"So do I."
"You're prettier than the nurses."
Marina freezes. Her hand hovers over the cabinet door.
"That's—" She clears her throat. "That's not a good reason to almost die on someone's doorstep."
"It's the only reason I have."
She closes the cabinet. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You're delirious," she says. "From blood loss."
"Probably."
"And the pain meds."
"Those too."
"So you don't actually mean—"
"I mean everything I say." I hold her gaze. "Even when I shouldn't."
The silence stretches between us. Thick. Heavy.
Marina breaks first. She always does. Not because she's weak—because she's smart. She knows when to retreat.
"I'm going to take a shower." She moves toward the hallway. "Try not to die while I'm gone."
"No promises."
Marina
I close the bathroom door behind me and lean against it.
My heart pounds against my ribs. Too fast. Too loud.
I didn't need a shower. I took one an hour ago. But I needed to get away from him. From those dark eyes watching me. From the way he said I mean everything I say.
The bathroom mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize. Flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Eyes too bright.
I point at my reflection.
"Get it together," I whisper. "Get. It. Together."
My reflection doesn't listen.
I press my palms flat against the cool porcelain of the sink. Force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way my therapist taught me before I stopped going.
He touched my chin.
I close my eyes.
His fingers were warm. Calloused. Gentle in a way I didn't expect from hands that have done the things his hands have done.
And he was going to kiss me.
I wasn't imagining it. I know what a man looks like when he's about to kiss someone. The way his eyes dropped to my mouth. The way he leaned in. The way the air between us went thick and electric.
He was going to kiss me.
And I stepped back.
Because I'm smart. Because I'm careful. Because letting Dante Castellani kiss me in my hallway while a cartel hunts for him is the worst idea in the history of bad ideas.
I hate him.
I open my eyes. Stare at myself in the mirror.
"You hate him," I say out loud. Testing the words. Seeing if they feel true.
They don't.
I hate what he represents.
But do I hate him?
My reflection offers no answers.
I think about his face when he talked about the Sartori marriages. The way he described love like something that happens to other people. Like he was reading from a book about a foreign country he'd never visit.
I think about the way he said you're the only person I wanted to see.
I think about his hands. Those scarred knuckles. The way they looked wrapped around the water glass. The way they felt against my skin.
"Stop it." I point at myself again. More forcefully this time. "Stop. Thinking. About. His. Hands."
My hand cramps. I shake it out. Flex the fingers. The nerve damage reminds me why I'm here. Why I left Chicago. Why getting involved with anyone connected to the Sartori family is a terrible, horrible, no-good idea.
Dante is dangerous.
Dante is wounded.
Dante is currently lying on my couch with his feet hanging off the end because he gave up my bed so I could sleep.
I splash cold water on my face. Pat it dry with a towel. Avoid looking at my reflection because I don't want to see what's written there.
He's good-looking. I can admit that. Objectively. Clinically. The way you might acknowledge that a painting is beautiful or a sunset is pretty.
Also: shot. Bleeding. Connected to organized crime. Responsible for dragging me back into a nightmare I thought I'd escaped.
Bad idea. Very bad idea. The worst idea.
I need to focus on the practical things.
I should make him go back to the bedroom.
I should insist.
I should be the adult in this situation because clearly he's not going to be.
But then I'd have to go back out there. Face him. Look at his mouth and remember how close it was to mine.
I check my phone. Pretend to scroll through emails. Kill time.
Five minutes pass. Ten.
I can't hide in the bathroom forever.
I take one more breath. Square my shoulders. Open the door.
Dante is exactly where I left him. Sprawled across my couch. His feet hang off the armrest.
He looks up when I enter.
"That was fast," he says.
I freeze.
"What?"
"Your shower." He tilts his head. Studies me with those too-observant eyes. "You were gone ten minutes. Your hair isn't wet."
Shit.
I touch my hair automatically. Dry. Obviously dry. Because I didn't actually take a shower.
"I—" My brain scrambles for an excuse. Any excuse. "There's no hot water."
He raises an eyebrow.
"No hot water," he repeats.
"Right." I nod too quickly. "The building has issues. Old pipes. Sometimes the hot water just... runs out."
"You forgot."
"What?"
"You forgot to actually take the shower." The corner of his mouth twitches. "You went in there to get away from me and then forgot to follow through."
My face burns.
"That's not—"
"It's fine." He shifts on the couch. Winces slightly. "I make people nervous."
"You don't make me nervous."
"Liar."
"I'm not—"
"Your hand is shaking."
I look down. My hand trembles against my thigh. I shove it into my pocket.
"That's the nerve damage," I say. "Not you."
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
He watches me. Patient. Knowing.
I hate that he can read me so easily. Hate that he sees through every excuse I make. Hate that he's lying there wounded and somehow still managing to make me feel like the one who's exposed.
"The couch is a bad idea," I say. Changing the subject. Grasping for solid ground.