14. Niccolò
Niccolò
Blood coats my left side. It is thick, warm, and sticky, gluing the ruined fabric of my dress shirt to my ribs.
The Falco family did not wait for me to officially sever the engagement.
They caught the scent of my hesitation. They realized Caterina was no longer guaranteed a crown.
A routine meeting at the docks turned into a slaughterhouse.
Three of my men are dead. Two of theirs are in pieces.
I killed the man who slipped a six-inch hunting knife under my guard, but the blade did its job.
It carved a deep, jagged line across my ribcage.
Every breath is a sharp spike of agony.
I pull the armored SUV into the hidden underground garage of the estate. I drove myself. I left Alessio and Enzo at the harbor to clean up the mess and dump the bodies into the bay.
The engine cuts off. I open the door and step out, my boots hit the cement with a heavy thud. I reach into the back seat and grab a black leather medical kit.
I should call Dr. Evans. Protocol demands I let the professionals stitch the torn flesh. I should follow the rules I enforce on my men.
I don't.
I bypass the heavy steel doors leading to the medical bay. I keep to the service stairs, moving through the shadows of my own house like a ghost. I leave a trail of red drops on the stone steps.
I refuse to bleed in front of the men who look to me for invincibility. I refuse to show weakness to the guards who patrol these halls.
More than that, I crave a very specific set of hands. I gave her comfort in the dark. Now, I am a selfish bastard coming to collect a debt she doesn't owe.
I navigate the dark second-floor hallway. The estate is asleep. The guards are stationed at the perimeter, blind to the bleeding Underboss stalking through the inner corridors.
I stop in front of her door.
I do not knock. I push the handle down. The lock gives way under the master key I carry in my pocket.
The room is pitch black. It smells faintly of her vanilla soap. I step inside and shut the door behind me. I lean heavily against the wood, my vision blurring for a fraction of a second. I grit my teeth, forcing the dizziness away.
"Livia."
My voice is a harsh, wet rasp.
The lump beneath the thin white sheets shifts. She sits up fast, a gasp caught in her throat. The faint moonlight filtering through the window catches the wide, terrified whites of her eyes.
"Who is it?" she whispers. She shrinks back against the headboard, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
"Turn on the lamp."
She recognizes my voice. Her hand fumbles in the dark until the small bedside lamp clicks on, casting a low, warm glow across the narrow bed.
Her eyes land on me, and I can see the fear shift and morph into confusion.
I am leaning against the closed door. Blood drips from my fingertips, soaking into the hardwood floor. My face is pale, covered in a sheen of cold sweat. My dark coat is ruined.
"Niccolò," she breathes, the name slipping out before she can catch it.
She throws the covers off, her bare feet hitting the floor. She is wearing a thin white tank top and soft cotton shorts. She looks soft. She looks like a civilian. I am dragging her into the mud of my reality, but I cannot stop myself. I need her hands on me.
"You're bleeding," she says, taking a hesitant step forward.
"The Falcos sent a message," I grind out, pushing off the door. Each step toward her requires a monumental effort of will.
I drop the heavy leather medical kit onto her mattress.
She stares at the kit, then up at my face. "You need a doctor. I'll get Marta. I'll call—"
"No," I command.
I sway slightly. I catch the edge of the bedpost to steady myself.
"No doctors. No staff." I lock my gaze onto hers. "You."
She shakes her head, taking a step back. "I don't know how. I'm a waitress, not a nurse. I'll hurt you."
“I’m sure you’ve stitched a cloth before.”
“This is flesh! They are not the same.”
"I trust you."
The words slip out. They are raw, stripped of all armor. I watch them land on her. Her jaw parts. She looks at the blood pooling on the floorboards, then back at my face.
She sees the vulnerability I hide from the rest of the world.
I shrug off the ruined jacket. It falls to the floor with a wet slap. I grip the hem of my ruined shirt and pull it over my head. I bite back a groan as the fabric peels away from the open wound.
The cut is deep. It runs from my lower ribs toward my hip, an ugly, jagged slash leaking fresh blood down my abdomen.
I sit heavily on the edge of her mattress.
"Do it, Livia," I tell her. "Before I bleed out on your floor."
She doesn't argue again. She steps forward, unzipping the leather kit. Her hands are shaking violently. She pulls out scissors, gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and the curved suture needle.
She kneels on the floor between my spread legs. Her bare knees brush the fabric of my trousers. Her face is level with my bleeding ribs. The vanilla scent of her skin wages a war against the smell of my blood.
"This is going to burn," she whispers, uncapping the antiseptic.
"Do it."
She presses the soaked gauze to the open wound.
Fire rips through my side. My muscles lock tight. I grip the edge of the mattress, my knuckles turning white, but I do not make a sound.
Livia's face is inches from my chest. I watch the intense concentration in her dark eyes. I watch the way her teeth sink into her lower lip. Her fingers are stained with my blood. She is so delicate, existing in the middle of my violent, ugly reality.
"I have to stitch it," she murmurs. She threads the needle. Her hands are trembling so badly she misses the eye of the needle on the first try.
"Look at me."
She glances up.
"Your hands are steady," I lie. "You have me. Go."
She takes a jagged breath. The needle pierces my skin.
I grit my teeth. The pain is a sharp, but it is eclipsed by the sensation of her touch. Her knuckles brush against my stomach with every pull of the thread. Her erratic breaths fan across my hot skin.
I am addicted to this. I am addicted to the contrast of her gentle hands fixing the damage my ruthless life creates. I want her to patch me up. I want her to own my scars.
She pulls the thread tight. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
"Don't apologize."
"I'm hurting you."
"You are keeping me alive," I correct her.
She lowers her eyes, focusing on the laceration.
She works with a slow, meticulous focus.
Every movement is careful. She treats my broken flesh with a reverence I do not deserve.
I am a man who orders executions. I am a man who bought her out of a jail cell to cage her in my home.
Yet here she sits, kneeling on the floor, her hands covered in my blood, stitching me back together.
The intimacy of the act is suffocating.
I watch the curve of her mouth. I remember the taste of her lips in my office. I remember the desperate sounds she made when I touched her. The memory sends a dark, heavy heat straight to my groin, warring with the agonizing throb in my ribs.
Ten minutes pass. They feel like ten hours.
She ties off the final knot and snips the thread with the small scissors.
She leans back on her heels, swiping a bloodstained wrist across her forehead. She leaves a faint red smear on her pale skin. She looks exhausted, beautiful, and completely ruined.
"It's done," she breathes.
She reaches into the kit for the bandages, but my restraint snaps.
The adrenaline from the ambush peaks, crashing into the searing pain in my side and the suffocating lust in my veins. I do not want the bandages. I want her.
My hand shoots out.
I grab the back of her neck. My fingers tangle in the loose, silky strands of her dark hair.
Livia gasps, her eyes flying wide open.
I pull her up from the floor. She stumbles forward, crashing into the V of my legs. Her hands fly to my chest to steady herself. She is careful to avoid the fresh stitches, her palms pressing flat against my bare, uninjured skin.
"Niccolò," she whimpers. It is a warning. It is a plea.
I ignore it. I am reckless. I am bleeding and I am starving.
I drag her face down to mine. My mouth crashes against hers.
I devour her. I pry her lips apart with my tongue, tasting the lingering vanilla, the metallic tang of blood, the desperate, ragged breath she exhales into my mouth. I kiss her with every ounce of violence and desperation rotting inside me.
She doesn't push me away.
Her fingers curl into my bare shoulders. She whimpers against my mouth, a soft, helpless sound that shatters the last ounce of my sanity. She kisses me back, yielding to the brutal demand of my mouth.
I tilt her head back, deepening the kiss, drinking her in like a dying man finding water. I need her taste. I need her heat to burn away the cold reality of my world. I map the roof of her mouth, my thumb stroking the fragile line of her jaw.
She is mine. She stitched my flesh. Now she is going to piece together my soul.
I slide my other hand down to her waist, gripping the soft cotton of her shorts. I lift her, pulling her onto my lap. She straddles my thighs, her knees bracketing my hips. She is careful of my wounded side, her body hovering just inches above the laceration.
The new position presses her core directly against the hard, aching ridge of my erection.
Livia breaks the kiss. She throws her head back, gasping for air. Her chest heaves against mine.
"You're hurt," she gasps, her hands gripping my shoulders tightly. "Niccolò, you're bleeding."
"I don't care."
I chase her mouth, trailing hot, wet kisses down her jawline. I bite gently at the pulse point on her neck. She shivers violently, her hips rolling forward automatically. The friction draws a deep, guttural groan from my throat.
"Stop," she begs, though her body is doing the exact opposite. Her fingers dig into my skin. "You need to rest. You need bandages."
"I need you," I rasp against her collarbone.
I slide my hands under the hem of her white tank top. Her skin is impossibly hot. I map the curve of her spine, pulling her flush against my chest. The pain in my ribs is a dull background noise compared to the roaring inferno of my lust.
She cups my face in her small, bloodstained hands. She forces me to look at her.
Her dark eyes are dilated, swimming with the same feral need consuming me. But there is a fierce, protective stubbornness in her expression.
"You will tear the stitches," she says firmly.
"Let them tear."
"No." She shakes her head. "I didn't patch you up just to watch you bleed out on my bed."
I glare at her, my chest heaving. I want to argue. I want to flip her onto the mattress and bury myself inside her until the rest of the world fades to black. But the resolve in her eyes stops me.
She is protecting me from my own destructive nature.
I drop my forehead against her shoulder, exhaling a harsh, shuddering breath. My hands remain locked around her waist. I refuse to let her move off my lap.
"Five minutes," I murmur into her skin. "Give me five minutes."
Livia doesn't fight the hold. She rests her chin on the top of my head, her fingers gently threading through my dark hair.
We sit on the edge of the mattress. The silence of the room wraps around us, broken only by our ragged breathing. I am a violent man. I rule an empire built on blood and fear. But sitting here, holding the waitress I trapped in my web, I find the only peace I have ever known.
She is the only truth in a world full of lies.
I lift my head, meeting her gaze. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.
"I broke the engagement," I tell her.
Livia freezes. Her hands stop moving in my hair.
"The ambush," I continue, my voice dropping to a low, lethal hum. "Caterina's father found out I backed out of the deal. He sent his dogs to kill me."
Her eyes widen. She looks at the bloody rags on the floor, then back at the dark, jagged stitches on my ribs. She realizes exactly what this means. She realizes the magnitude of the war I just invited into my house.
"Why?" she whispers, her voice trembling. "Why would you do that?"
I lift my hand, cupping her cheek. My thumb traces the soft curve of her cheekbone.
"Because I refuse to put a ring on another woman's finger when my obsession belongs to you."