Chapter 15
I watch Melania organize the supplies with surprising efficiency. She's not squeamish around blood—interesting.
"Sit," she commands, leaving no room for argument.
I comply, lowering myself onto a rickety chair while she remains standing. The position puts her in control, looking down at me—a reversal of our usual dynamic that I should hate. I don't.
She steps between my legs, close enough that her scent fills my senses. The towel dips into the hot water and she wrings it out with delicate fingers before pressing it to my arm.
"This might sting," she warns, but her touch is gentle as she cleans away the dried blood.
I don't flinch. Pain is an old friend. What's new is the careful way she tends to me, like I'm something worth preserving.
"You've done this before," I observe, eyeing her methodical movements.
"Basic first aid was part of my computer science program," she explains, her eyes never leaving my wound. "They said we might have to work with sensitive equipment in remote locations."
I doubt they meant bullet wounds, but I don't say it.
Her face hovers inches from mine as she works, completely focused on her task.
No disgust, no trepidation—just concentration.
The single bulb casts shadows across her features, highlighting the curve of her cheekbone, the fullness of her lips.
Her hair falls forward, and she absently pushes it back with her wrist, careful to keep her bloodied fingers away from her face.
Fuck, she's beautiful.
Not in the manufactured way of the women who circle Damiano's clubs—all silicone and calculated seduction. Melania's beauty is unintentional, almost accidental. I love the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates.
Her fingertips brush my skin as she applies antiseptic and I suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with pain.
She's standing between my spread legs, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body.
Close like we were earlier, when the alarm interrupted whatever the fuck was happening between us.
"You're not what I expected," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
Her eyes flick up to mine briefly before returning to her work. "What did you expect? A spoiled princess who'd fall apart at the first sign of blood?"
"Something like that."
The corner of her mouth quirks up. "Sorry to disappoint."
"I didn't say I was disappointed."
Her hands pause for a fraction of a second before resuming their gentle ministrations. She's wrapping gauze around my arm now, her fingers working with surprising dexterity.
"There," she says finally, securing the bandage with medical tape. "Not hospital-grade but it should hold until we can get you proper treatment."
She doesn't step back immediately. We're frozen in this strange intimacy—her standing between my thighs, her hands still resting lightly on my arm, my face tilted up to hers, hers down to mine.
I watch her eyes flicker with something—awareness, maybe, of the intimacy—before she takes two deliberate steps back, creating distance between us. The absence of her warmth is immediate.
"We should rest," she says. "It's been a long day."
"You hungry?" I ask, reaching for my shirt. The fabric slides over my skin, hiding the scars she'd been so careful not to stare at. "There must be something here to fill our stomachs with."
I stand and move toward the makeshift kitchen area, my arm throbbing dully beneath her neat bandaging. The cupboards yield a few canned goods—soup, beans, tuna. Nothing like the carbonara we shared earlier, but it'll keep us alive.
"Not much of a selection," I say. "But Damiano's men always stock the basics."
Melania approaches cautiously, keeping the table between us. "Soup is fine."
I grab a can and the opener, working it one-handed. She watches me struggle for about ten seconds before stepping forward.
"Let me," she says, taking both from my hands. Her fingers brush mine, and neither of us acknowledges the contact.
While she works the opener, I find two chipped bowls and a pot that's seen better days. The hot plate takes forever to heat up but eventually the soup starts to steam.
"Chicken noodle," she says, stirring it with a plastic spoon. "Not exactly gourmet dining."
"Better than nothing." I lean against the counter, watching her. "And definitely better than anything I'd make."
That earns me a small smile, gone almost as quickly as it appears. "Low bar."
The soup isn't much, but it's hot and filling. We eat standing up, the silence between us less tense than before. She finishes first, setting her bowl in the small sink.
"Thank you," I say, nodding toward my bandaged arm. "For this."
She shrugs, not meeting my eyes.
"We should get some sleep," she says, glancing at the two mattresses on opposite corners. "Tomorrow will be another long day."
I lie on the thin mattress, staring at the high warehouse ceiling. The springs dig into my back, but that's not why I can't sleep. My mind tumbles with the events of the day—the gunshots, the chase, the dead men. The feel of Alessio's leathery skin under my fingertips as I bandaged his wound.
The warehouse is silent except for our breathing. I can tell from the rhythm of his that he's awake too, though we're both pretending otherwise. The darkness between us feels charged with unspoken things.
"What was it like?" Alessio's voice cuts through the silence. "Living in London."
I keep my eyes fixed on a water stain above me, shaped vaguely like Italy. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious how Antonio Lombardi's daughter ended up studying across the ocean."
I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and something about the darkness makes it easier to speak. "I wanted to leave. I begged to study abroad, but I never thought he'd agree."
"Why did he?"
"Looking back, I think he wanted me gone.
I was always... inconvenient. Always asking questions, poking around where I shouldn't since I was twelve or thirteen.
" I laugh without humor. "Turns out he was probably already planning my marriage to Raymond even then.
London was getting me out of the way until I was useful. "
Alessio shifts on his mattress. "And Stone?"
"Raymond." His name tastes bitter in my mouth. "It all seemed so normal at first. The charity galas, the 'accidental' meetings my father arranged. Raymond asking me to dinner like we were normal people."
"You didn't want to go."
"God, no. But my father..." I swallow hard. "Our first dinner was excruciating. Three hours of Raymond talking about himself—his political connections, his status, his opinions. He ordered my food without asking what I wanted."
I turn my head to find Alessio watching me through the darkness, his profile illuminated by the faint security lights filtering through the windows.
"The whole time," I continue, "he kept touching my hand, my arm. Nothing inappropriate enough that I could object but enough that I felt... claimed. Like I was already his property."
"And your father approved."
"He was thrilled. Said Raymond was a 'man of vision.' Said I should be grateful that someone so powerful was interested in me." My voice catches. "I tried to tell him I wasn't interested but he wouldn't hear it."
I wait for Alessio's response but he remains silent for so long I wonder if he's fallen asleep.
"These weddings..." he finally says, his voice low and rough in the darkness. "They have nothing to do with what you want. That's just how our world is made."
"Our world," I repeat, tasting the bitterness of those words. "A world where daughters are bargaining chips."
Silence stretches between us again and I find myself filling it.
"London was different." I twist my mother's ring around my finger. "For a while I felt... normal. Just another student with deadlines and favorite coffee shops."
"You had friends?"
"I had a roommate, Ashley." A smile touches my lips at the memory. "She was a lesbian and we had an amazing time together. She taught me how to make proper tea and took me to underground clubs I'd never have found on my own."
"Your father allowed that? A roommate?"
"He hated it. Said we had money enough to buy houses all around the UK if I wanted to. He couldn't understand why I'd choose to share a flat when I didn't have to." I sigh. "Eventually he forced me to move and alone. Said it wasn't appropriate for a Lombardi to share anything."
Alessio shifts on his mattress. "Did you keep talking to her? Ashley?"
"For a while." The water stain on the ceiling blurs as my eyes fill. "But after I left for New York, I... I haven't contacted her."
"Why not?"
I swallow hard. "I left London heartbroken in one way and another. I needed to keep a distance from everything that had to do with London."
"What happened?" Alessio's voice is almost tender.
I try to look at him through the darkness. "It's not really fair for me to do all the talking, is it? What about you? Tell me something real."
His profile is sharp against the dim light. "I'm not a big talker."
I stare at the ceiling for another moment, then say, "Okay." If he won't volunteer information, I'll have to dig it out of him. "Let me ask you questions. That might help."
A low chuckle rumbles from Alessio's mattress. The sound startles me—I've barely heard him laugh before.
"What's so funny?" I prop myself up on one elbow.
"Nothing." There's still amusement in his voice. "Ask your questions, princess."
I consider what I want to know about this dangerous man lying a few feet away from me. "Are you married?" I pause, then add, "Do you have any kids?"
Alessio laughs again, louder this time. "These are questions a five-year-old child could answer just by looking at me."
"Don't be so dramatic," I roll my eyes, though he probably can't see it in the darkness. "Just answer."
The springs creak as he shifts. "I'm not a fan of relationships. So no, neither of those things."
I put my head in my hand, propping myself up to look at him better. "What does that even mean? You've never had girlfriends?"
Alessio turns his head toward me. Even in the darkness I feel the weight of his gaze. "I had one, once. It ended." His throat rasps, rough. "Since then, I just fuck."
My mouth falls open. The blunt statement catches me completely off guard and I can feel heat rushing to my face. I'm grateful for the darkness hiding my reaction but I can't stop the small gasp escaping my lips.
I swallow hard, the heat in my face intensifying. His words hang in the air between us, brutal and unapologetic. Just fuck. The crude simplicity of it shouldn't affect me this way.
"Of course you do," I say, finding my voice. "Every man in your circle either just fucks around like my brother does, or marries out of self-interest and then fucks around on his wife."
The words are just as blunt as his, something about his casual admission has struck a nerve.
Maybe it's because it reminds me of Leonardo, who cycles through women like seasonal wardrobes.
Or my father, who maintained mistresses throughout his marriage to my mother.
Or just because of James. Even though he isn't part of our world.
The mattress across from me creaks as Alessio sits up suddenly. Even in the dimness I make out the tension in his shoulders. When he speaks his voice has that dangerous register that makes my skin prickle.
"The next time you compare me to another man," he says, each word cutting, "you'll end up with your hands tied again."
I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. The threat shouldn't send that strange ripple down my spine, but it does.