27. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dante
Pain greets me before consciousness fully returns. A burning, throbbing ache radiating from my shoulder down my left arm, then back up again in waves.
I've been shot before.
The sensation is familiar. The tearing of muscle, the searing heat of damaged tissue trying to knit itself back together. But this time feels different. This time, the bullet I took was meant for Francesca.
And I'd take it again in a fucking heartbeat.
My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the soft light filtering through gauzy curtains. The ceiling above me is familiar—ornate plasterwork, subtle cracks in specific places that I've memorized since… since… childhood?
Holy shit.
I'm in my mother's villa. In Italy. In the master bedroom where Francesca and I first truly connected.
"Welcome back to the land of the living."
Francesca's voice draws my attention to the chair beside the bed. She's curled there like a protective angel, the dark circles beneath her golden eyes betraying her clear lack of sleep. Her hair is pulled back in a loose braid, and she's wearing what appears to be one of my shirts.
She looks exhausted. Concerned.
Yet, still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.
"How long have I been out?" My voice comes out as a rasp, throat dry from disuse.
"Three days," she replies, rising to pour water from a crystal pitcher on the nightstand. "The doctor says you're lucky. The bullet missed anything vital, but you lost a lot of blood on the way here. The infection was worse."
She helps me sit up, supporting my back with gentle hands as she brings the glass to my lips. I drink greedily, the cool water soothing my parched throat.
"And Antonio?" I ask when I've swallowed.
Francesca's smile lights up her tired features, and something in my chest constricts painfully.
Christ, what has this woman done to me?
I never thought I'd care about anyone's smile, let alone have it affect me physically like this. But here I am, a man who's built his life on violence and control, brought low by the curve of her lips.
"He's recovering down the hall. Still weak, but Maria's cooking is working miracles. He's barely stopped eating since we arrived." That smile tugs further at her lips. "Romano says he hasn't seen someone eat that much since you were a teenager."
I attempt to shift position, wincing as pain races through my shoulder. Francesca's hand immediately moves to my chest, steadying me.
"Easy," she murmurs. "The stitches are still fresh."
Her palm rests over my heart, warm against my skin. The simple contact grounds me, brings me fully into this moment, this unexpected sanctuary.
"You brought us here," I observe. "To the villa."
She nods. "It was closest to our extraction point from Russia. Marco thought it would be safer than London while you were vulnerable. Don't worry, the doctor is discreet, and security has been tightened. He's been seeing to both you and Antonio."
My gaze travels to the window, where I can just make out the familiar silhouette of cypress trees against the Italian sky. This place holds so many memories—my mother's laughter, childhood summers with Luca, and now… moments like this with Francesca.
The woman who was brought into my world as merchandise and has risen to become my saving grace.
"Come here," I tell her, my voice still rough but stronger now.
She hesitates, eyeing my bandaged shoulder. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You'll hurt me more by staying away."
This earns me yet another smile as she carefully shifts from the chair to perch on the edge of the bed. I reach for her with my uninjured arm, fingers finding the soft skin of her cheek.
"You saved me," she whispers, leaning into my touch. "You took that bullet knowing it was meant for me."
I stroke my thumb along her jawline. "I told you, princess. I would take a thousand."
"You saved Antonio too," Francesca murmurs, her fingers trailing along my uninjured arm. "Even after everything my father did... after everything he said to you."
I shrug, then wince at the pull in my shoulder. "It's my job to protect what's mine. You're mine. Your brother is your family. Therefore, he's under my protection."
Her amber eyes search my face. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. "I meant what I said in that helicopter, Francesca. I love you. That means I'll do anything—kill anyone—to keep you and yours safe."
"Even if it means taking on the Volkovs?"
"Especially then." My jaw tightens at the thought of those Russian bastards laying hands on Antonio. "I told you on the yacht, no one touches what belongs to me. Not your father, not the Volkovs, not even my own brother."
She leans down, pressing her forehead to mine. "You're a dangerous man, Dante Ravelli."
"Only to those who threaten what I love." The words come easier now, like breaking through a dam. Years of my father's conditioning— love is weakness, sentiment gets you killed —crumbling in the face of this woman's quiet strength.
Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. "I thought I was going to lose you. There was so much blood, Dante. And you wouldn't wake up. Even after the doctor removed the bullet, your fever..." She swallows hard. "I was so afraid."
The vulnerability in her voice strips me bare in ways no physical wound could manage.
"It'll take more than a Russian bullet to kill me," I assure her, my tone lighter than the weight of what passed between us in that bloody tunnel.
"It better," she replies fiercely, her hand finding mine. "Because I'm not done with you yet, Dante Ravelli."
I tug her closer, ignoring the protest of damaged muscles. When our lips meet, the kiss is gentle at first, tentative, mindful of my injuries… but it quickly deepens into something hungrier.
The taste of her mouth pulls me back to life more effectively than any medication. Her tongue slides against mine, and I groan at the contact, at the flood of desire that overwhelms physical pain.
But then, she pulls back and breaks us apart, both breathing heavily. She rests her forehead against mine.
"Dante, we can't. The doctor said you need to rest."
"Fuck the doctor," I growl, my good hand already sliding beneath her shirt, finding the warm skin of her back.
She laughs softly, the sound like music after the gunfire and alarms of our escape.
"Later. After you're healed. I promise." She catches my wandering hand, bringing it to her lips to place a kiss against my palm. "I need you at full strength, not bleeding all over Maria's clean sheets."
I reluctantly concede, allowing her to adjust pillows behind me so I can sit more comfortably. From this position, I can see beyond the bedroom to the terrace where Mediterranean light bathes ancient stones.
"I never imagined this," I admit, the words emerging unbidden. "You, here, tending to me. Caring for my wounds. When I first brought you to the villa..."
"When you first kidnapped me, you mean," she corrects, though there's no bitterness in her tone anymore.
"I took you to Paris first!" I laugh, nudging her with my fist. "But you're right. When I first kidnapped you, I saw only an acquisition. A symbol of my power. A way to prove I could take what I wanted."
Her expression softens. "And now?"
I study her face—the intelligence in her eyes, the strength in her jawline, the softness of her lips that hide a razor-sharp mind that's helping me in ways I never imagined.
Because of her, I'm nearly there.
She secured Dominguez's ports through pure intelligence, no bloodshed needed until he forced my hand.
She helped outmaneuvered the Beaumonts at that first masquerade in Paris without speaking a word of threat.
She spotted the weakness in Vladimir's security detail that let us save Antonio.
Knew exactly which of my father's old allies to approach about the Mediterranean routes.
The woman can speak multiple languages. She knows every major family's history and alliances. Can read a room faster than my best security teams, and handles negotiations that would have ended in bloodshed if it were me instead.
"And now…"
I bring my hand to her face, touching her every so softly.
"You make me think before I kill. Question if violence is always the answer." I swallow hard. "You make me want to build something lasting instead of just burning it all down."
My thumb traces her lower lip. "You make me feel human again."
"And that's not weakness?" she asks softly.
"No." I pull her closer, ignoring the protest of my wounds. "It's evolution. Something I've needed since I was a child."
She climbs carefully onto the bed beside me, nestling against my uninjured side. Her head rests on my chest, her breath warm against my skin.
As I start to let my mind wander, my own brother's betrayal starts to burn like acid in my veins. But watching Francesca's desperate need to save Antonio awakened something I've long suppressed.
The recognition that some bonds transcend reason, transcend even self-preservation.
"Do you ever think about it?" she asks after several minutes of comfortable silence.
"About what?"
"Children." The word falls between us, heavy with implication. "A family beyond the empire we're building."
I think of Bianca's swollen belly at the masquerade, of Luca's protective hand resting there. Of the reports from Vladimir indicating complications with the pregnancy.
The thought of Francesca carrying my child, spawn created with a mixture of her fierce intelligence and my dark determination. A child with her beautiful golden eyes perhaps, but with my strategic mind.
A perfect heir for the empire we're building.
The image is seductive, but also frightening in its intensity.