Chapter 8
RENZO
The doctors said I should stay in bed for another week so they can monitor my brain and ribs.
I said fuck that.
So here I am, limping across the private suite of Istituto San Cristoforo with a titanium pin on my left arm and one crutch that keeps slipping on the marble like it’s got a death wish.
Every time I plant a foot wrong, the pain rips through me in a frankly fucking rude reminder that I’m human – barely.
‘Language,’ she chides from the corner, without even looking up from the book she’s pretending to read, and I realise I’ve been steadily cursing since my latest attempt at fucking walking.
‘Language?’ I grunt, adjusting my balance. ‘Sister, if you heard the things I don’t say, you’d be thanking the Virgin herself.’
Giada’s mouth twitches. The smile that follows is small, serene… and lethal.
That smile has become my favourite addiction.
I’ve caught myself watching her too often these past few days. When she squats to pick up a dropped rosary bead. When she helps the nurses adjust my brace or straightens my sheet. When she murmurs prayers under her breath that sound suspiciously like she’s arguing with God.
Every time I feel the fuse of my temper spark – when the pain’s too much, or the doctors talk to me like I’m a child, or I remember how easily I could’ve died – one glance at her, and I’m disarmed.
For a guy whose mafia initiation at thirteen was getting dropped in the middle of deeply hostile Haitian territory with nothing but his twin at his back and his fists for defence, it’s fucking alarming to feel like a nun in a habit is the only thing standing between me and the version of myself who wants to burn the world.
The bastard in me resents that. The boy in me who fell beneath her spell over a decade ago doesn’t care.
‘Slow down,’ she says as I grimace, dragging myself towards the window. ‘You’re not on a racing track.’
‘Maybe that’s exactly the problem. I should be.’
She sighs, closes her book, and walks over. She smells like soap and clean cotton and something faintly floral that doesn’t belong to the convent. And it pleases me far too much that she may have spritzed on one of the many perfumes I ordered to be delivered to her room. ‘Sit before you fall.’
‘Bossy,’ I mutter, but I do as I’m told. She settles beside me, folding her hands neatly in her lap, eyes soft but steady.
‘Do you ever stop glaring at the world?’ she asks.
I hide my relief from the pain with a shrug. ‘Not until it stops glaring back.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ she says, parroting my words back at me.
I stare at her stunning face, then wink. ‘Maybe I’m arming myself against that smile when it truly lets loose and blows me the fuck away.’
Her eyes widen, then gain an impish gleam. Right before her lips curve, slow and sure, and… oh, Jesus fuck, the heat that coils low in my stomach is anything but holy.
‘Then maybe we’re both doomed,’ she says softly.
‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’
She laughs, quiet and breathy and so damn sexy, and I swear I’d crash a thousand more times just to hear it again.
* * *
The door bursts open. Dr Conti – a name she’s insisted I remember instead of simply referring to him as Doctor – all but stumbles in, breathless and pale.
‘What is it?’ I growl, shifting my glare to the security guards who’ve allowed me to be disturbed. Whose presence has wiped the smile and laughter from her face.
‘Signore Salvatore – your brother. He’s—’
‘What about him?’ I bark. I don’t even need to ask which brother he’s referring to.
‘Signore Dante. He’s on his way. The front desk just called. He’s already through security.’
Of course he is. Because he’s not a guest, he’s family. ‘Che cazzo.’
I drag a hand through my hair. Of course Dante wouldn’t listen. The doctor would’ve told him I was stable and needed rest. My twin’s idea of ‘rest’ involves starting a war just to check my pulse.
‘I tried to tell him you’re not in a position for guests but he… he did not appreciate that,’ Dr Conti says, confirming my thoughts.
‘How long have I got?’
‘I can stall him for maybe fifteen minutes, maybe less. But…’ If he’s anything like you, that time frame is a joke. I hear the unspoken words loud and clear.
‘Bene.’ I grab one crutch, turn to my men posted by the door. ‘You heard him. Fifteen minutes. Get her out of here.’
Giada blinks. ‘You want me to leave? No – why?’
Her clear reluctance sends bolts of pleasure through me.
See that, God? She likes me better than you.
I want to pull her close, feel her softness against me.
Breathe her in until my lungs die happy from the scent of her.
But instead I drag a knuckle down her soft, warm cheek.
‘Because my brother – and the world – isn’t ready for you.
You go to your room, lock the door, and stay there until I say otherwise. Understand?’
The two guards step forward. She looks between them, then at me, eyes wide with disbelief. ‘You can’t just—’
‘I can,’ I interrupt. ‘And I will. Go, Giada. On your two legs. I’d rather you not see the consequences of other men touching you.’
Her eyes turn to adorable saucers. And fuck it, I can’t help it. I drop my head and brush a kiss at the corner of her mouth, dance in the warmth of her expelled breath.
Her breath quickens, first with stunned surprise, then deep carnal awareness, but she falls back on anger, letting it ignite through her composure as the soldiers move closer. ‘First you kidnap me, then you think you can hide me like some criminal? What are you afraid of?’
‘Not afraid, angel,’ I say quietly. ‘Protective.’
‘I don’t need protecting.’
‘You do – from my family, unless you want them to rip you apart?’ I say starkly enough for her to know I’m not fucking around.
That gives her pause.
Her lips part, something raw flashing across her face.
For the first time, I see reluctance in her eyes.
It’s not from fear for my eternally damned soul.
It’s something else. The days of chiding and bolstering and watching have germinated a film of protection.
It’s thin, and she might not even be aware of it herself, but it’s there.
Giada hates the thought of leaving me without her protection.
I almost roar with the heady sensation. Instead I throttle it long enough to say, ‘Please, ragazza.’ Softer this time. ‘Do this for me.’
She swallows, nods once, but the look she gives me as they lead her out hits like a punch. It’s reluctant. Conflicted. But – after pressing her rosary into my palm – she goes.
And God help me, it fills me with a deeper elation.
‘We’ll be together again soon, baby,’ I call after her. ‘And with no distractions. I promise.’
The door closes. The silence left behind is too heavy, too empty.
I drag myself back towards the bed and lower myself onto it. Every muscle screams.
‘Now, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to give me a sedative that mimics the coma and mostly takes me out of it.’
‘But… I told your family we’ll be bringing you out of the coma, not leaving you in it. I think your brother will want to see signs that you’re awakening, Signore,’ the doctor warns.
‘He can want all he likes. Make up some bullshit excuse.’ I motion at the junior doctor trying to hide behind his clipboard. ‘Last week you were more than eager with it. So get the sedative. Now.’
His eyes widen. ‘Signore, that’s not advisable—’
‘I didn’t ask for advice. I asked for action.’
He hesitates, trembling.
‘Don’t make me fucking repeat myself, Dottore.’
Reluctantly, Dr Conti goes to the tray of medication and draws up the dose. ‘Half strength,’ he murmurs.
‘Good man.’ I take the syringe, find the vein myself, and push the plunger. The world begins to tilt, edges softening. ‘How long will it take?’
The doctor hovers. ‘About four minutes but you risk destabilising your vitals—’
‘Wake me properly the second Dante leaves. One second longer and you and I will have a problem.’
His distress is palpable. ‘Signore—’
‘Relax,’ I mutter. ‘You’ll live. Maybe.’
My phone buzzes on the tray. I reach for it, thumb heavy on the screen.
Nightowl
You’ll thank me for this later.
Renzo
Doubtful.
Nightowl
Madre Superiora – turns out her vows were more transactional than spiritual. Had a sweet little side business selling confessions to whoever paid highest. Bank accounts to match.
I blink hard, fighting the haze. My fingers lose their ability to type, so I hit the mic button and slur the words.
Renzo
You’re telling me the nun’s a crook.
Nightowl
Crook, informant, blackmailer. Take your pick.
Renzo
Where is she?
Nightowl
Somewhere safe. Somewhere you’ll want to be when you wake up.
A chill slides down my spine.
Renzo
You moved her.
Nightowl
Let’s call it relocation. New scenery. Better lighting for interrogation.
I stare at the words until they start to blur.
Renzo
Why?
Nightowl
You said hard questioning. I just set the table. Sweet dreams, racer boy.
The phone slips from my hand as the sedative pulls me under, thick and fast.
Through the fog, I picture her. Giada… standing by the window, veil fluttering like a dove’s wing, eyes full of questions she’s not ready to ask.
When I wake, I’ll start getting the answers.
And God help anyone who stands in my way.
* * *
The sedative is a thick, slow river.
It doesn’t drown me so much as make everything float like words through cotton, light through water.
Still, I can hear. That’s the best and worst part. I can hear the world gossiping about me while my hand clutches her rosary, and my broken arm and ribs throb like a motherfucker.
Dante’s voice fills the room like surround sound.
He always talks slower when he’s angry or nervous, like he’s trying to systematically chisel the edges off a thought until it’s safe to touch. He sits on the chair with two legs kicked up, elbows on knees, and starts in – rambling, complaining, prodding at the places I can’t reach.