67. Luna
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
LUNA
Inside, the air smells of lemon polish and old money. Marble floors, crystal shit dangling from ceilings, Caterina’s taste, but I’ll eventually replace it with something that doesn’t reek of her.
Amara and Mateo claim a parlor, already barking orders about medical supplies. Enzo herds the others upstairs, boots echoing like gunshots in the too-quiet halls. I pause in the foyer, with the key biting into my palm.
I press my lips to Nico’s shoulder and take a breath. “You’re swaying.”
“Dancing,” he lies. “You leading or what?”
Shaking my head, I drag him up the staircase, past oil portraits of dead men with Nico’s eyes staring back at us. Our room is at the end of the hall, waiting for us to step inside. Nico kicks the door shut, and we both collapse onto the bed.
His chuckle is effortless. “You’re insufferable.”
Footsteps rattle outside—Sophie’s laughter tangling with Bria’s protest over room choices—a door slams. Massimo’s growl ricochets up the stairs. “Bourbon. Now.” The ruckus is almost comforting proof we’re alive enough to bicker.
Nico’s heartbeat thrums under my ear, strong and stubborn. I trace the scar on his collarbone, my thumb brushing over the raised line. The chandelier catches the fading light across his face, his cuts, his bruises, all of him.
“I love you,” I whisper. “So much it scares me.”
“I love you,” he rasps, running his nose along my neck. “You, the baby—both of you. I’ll tear apart anyone, or anything, that comes near you. I promise you’re safe. I’ll make damn sure of it. Always.” I press closer.
“You already did, marito.” His chest vibrates with a silent laugh.
With a tired smile, I say, “Now to shower.”
He nods, no words needed. It takes all our effort to stumble to the bathroom and remove our clothing. Tossing it in the corner for Barrett to take care of later.
I tug him under the shower’s spray, my hands lightly brushing over his broken ribs.
Steam rises around us, hiding the things we don’t say.
He stands there, head down, quiet as I wash away the dirt and dried blood.
And let the water rinse away two days of hell on earth.
Now, he smells like my husband again, instead of death.
“You’re quiet,” he rasps out.
I press my fingers into his shoulders.
“Thanks.”
Nico huffs a laugh, the sound brittle. “Plotting again?”
“Always.”
My hands tremble as Nico pulls me under the waterfall.
Even with his broken fingers, his hands glide the soap over my shoulders and over my stomach.
Every touch leaves me breathless as the water washes away the stress and fear of the last few days.
And when his palm curls around the back of my neck, pressing my forehead to his, the heat between us chases the chill, when the water turns cold.
Nico fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, his left hand stiff and curled awkwardly. He swaps hands, jaw flexing, and yanks the fabric over his head with a rough jerk. He closes his eyes briefly, a quiet battle against his pain.
I grab his shirt and step in front of him. After he slips his arms inside, I begin buttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. His breath hitches, pride fighting pain, but he lets me.
Once I’ve finished, I say, “You need to see the doctor.”
His brows flick up in challenge. “Do I?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t start.”
Nico’s fingers brush my lower back. “Lead the way, then.”
I navigate the maze of halls with Nico’s instruction since I’ve never been to Westchester Mansion. I’m sure it will take some time to familiarize myself with all the rooms.
“Shirt off,” the doctor orders. Nico doesn’t move. His jaw locks, eyes fixed on the floor. I step closer.
“Let me.” He freezes, but doesn’t stop me.
I start at the top button. My fingers are steady, but my chest isn’t. Remembering how he couldn’t do it earlier and how he threw the shirt on the floor like it offended him. I’d helped him then. I’m helping him now. And it must be eating him alive.
When I reach the bottom, I ease the fabric off his shoulders. It sticks to the lashes on his back, angry red lines, some still bleeding. He hisses through his teeth. The doctor swears under his breath. “Cristo.”
“Pants too.” Nico unbuckles his belt and lets them drop to the floor.
Refusing my help. A bullet grazed his thigh, leaving the skin puckered and raw.
Bruises bloom across his ribs, two of them clearly broken from the way they dip inward.
The doctor prods them, and Nico clenches his fist on the exam table, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“Turn,” Antonio snaps. He checks the concussion with a penlight, frowns at Nico’s sluggish pupils, then splints his broken fingers again. “Blood transfusion. Now.”
“No.”
“You’ll die,” the doctor growls.
Nico barks a laugh. “Not today.”
His eyes catch mine— Stay out of it —as the doctor stitches the worst of the cuts. When he’s done, Nico shrugs his shirt back on like it’s nothing. But I see the tremor in his hands. The sweat on his neck.
“I want you back here every day so I can clean your wounds properly. Heed my warning. If you keep running into battle, your body’s going to give out before your luck does.”
Nico mumbles, “Not my luck you should be worrying about, Antonio.”
I cross my arms. “Meaning?”
He doesn’t answer, and he’s off the hook when there’s a knock on the door and Mateo pokes his head in with a grin. “Food’s ready, if you two wanna eat.”
Nico grunts, which I assume is agreement.
The dining room is loud when we walk in.
Enzo’s nursing a drink, Bria and Sophie are picking apart a loaf of bread like scavengers, and Mateo and Amara are too busy talking to even think about food.
Laurent has outdone himself—roast meats, seasonal vegetables, and fresh rolls that are still piping hot.
Nico stays beside me, one hand toying with the table linen. I nudge him gently, an unspoken demand: eat. His lips twitch, but he listens. For once.
Caterina’s absence doesn’t surprise me. She knows better than to join us since Nico found out how she treated me at the safehouse. The reason he kicked her out in the first place. But I’m sure she’s lurking nearby. Nico doesn’t look for her. He doesn’t bring it up. Neither do I.
My mother’s missing too. Probably licking their wounds somewhere together, two women who thought they were untouchable and learned otherwise. I don’t feel sorry for them.
The dining room hums with quiet conversation. Plates are scraped clean, and drinks pass between hands that once held guns. The air feels calm, almost peaceful, for the first time in years.
Nico leans back in his chair, fingers curled around his glass, watching the room with a stony expression. He’s still injured, still exhausted, but the fight is over. We made it.
Mateo snorts at something Sophie says, Amara finally smiles, and even Enzo, gruff as ever, tips his glass in a rare show of approval. We’re all here. And we’re alive.
I glance at Nico, catching the glint in his eye, the spark of something powerful, inevitable. He knows what this means. We all do. Our enemies are gone. The battlefield has been cleared.
This empire? It’s ours now.
And I wouldn’t want to rule it with anyone else.