Chapter 13
Katarina
As soon as Damiano closes the door, tears choke me. I bury my face in my hands, muffling my sobs as defeat washes over me. I can’t outrun him, and he’ll keep me here for as long as he wants.
I’m completely at his mercy.
The room feels smaller, walls pressing in with the certainty that I’m not leaving until he says so.
Despite his promises of safety, I can’t trust him. Because what would it make me if I trusted the mafia?
Stupid, that’s what. And I refuse to be stupid.
I try to sit up in bed, but a stabbing pain in my shoulder makes me collapse onto the mattress. Then I notice wetness on my feet. When I look down, blood oozes from several cuts across my soles.
Shit, I don’t even know when I cut myself. When I manage to sit up, I finally feel the pain.
“Kat?” My eyes dart towards the door and the familiar voice calling my name.
I pause to regain some composure before whispering, “Julian?”
I wipe the tears from my face and watch him take big steps, closing the distance between us. When he reaches me, he pulls me into the strength of his arms.
He smells of crushed pine needles and bitter citrus, fresh from outside. His brown eyes are tight with concern, jaw clenched as he takes in my state.
"?Dios mío! ?Qué pasó?"
He crouches in front of me and lifts my bloodied foot to examine it. He shakes his head slowly and closes his eyes fretfully.
When he opens them again, he asks, “What did they do to you?”
He sighs before loosening the tie around his neck. I notice his usual muscle shirt and cargo pants have been replaced with a black suit that fits him like a glove. His buzz cut has grown a bit since I last saw him, too. Stubble peppers his chiseled jawline, and his deep-set eyes bore into mine.
“How did you get here?” I ask as a sudden lump catches in my throat. The sight of his worried eyes suddenly becomes permission to hurt, and I crumble.
“I’m here. Ssshhh. Don’t cry. I came here with you. Do you think I was going to let you go anywhere without me?”
He reaches up to cup my face with his big palms. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I’m so sorry.” Guilt washes over his face.
“Damiano... he’s...” I start, but he nods, giving me a knowing look.
“I know... Sshhh, I know.”
He gets up and sits beside me on the bed. His arm wraps around me as I lean my head on his broad shoulder.
“It’s okay, I’m here, Kat. You’re not alone.”
He keeps repeating those words, his hand gently rubbing my arm in an earnest attempt to soothe me.
I don’t know how long we sat there like that before I was too exhausted to cry.
Eventually, I take a shuddering breath and wipe my face using the back of my hand.
My eyes are so swollen that I can barely see through them.
“Let’s get you cleaned up. You don’t want those cuts to be infected.
” He murmurs before he stands, his arm pulling me up with ease.
I wince as my feet press onto the carpet, so he shifts and carries me bridal-style instead.
He walks us into the bathroom and sets me gently on the shower bench.
Shrugging off his jacket, he rolls up his sleeves to keep them from getting wet.
I rest my head on the wall behind me and watch him turn on the handheld shower and adjust the knobs to find the perfect temperature. Still feeling out of breath, I close my eyes and try to ground myself.
“Get out.”
The sound of his voice booms in the bathroom, making my heart jump. When I open my eyes, Damiano is standing in the doorway of the bathroom, glaring at Julian with pure disgust. Julian matches his stare.
Immediately, all the tension that had just left my body returns.
“Damiano.” I try to call his attention, but he is laser-focused on Julian, who is still holding the handheld shower with the water running, pooling around us. When it reaches the cuts under my feet, I gasp in pain.
“Ouch,” their attention finally turns to me.
“I said leave.” Damiano hisses, and the intensity of his anger catches me off guard. His eyes narrow and his lips curl into a snarl as Julian turns to me.
"She needs help cleaning her wounds," Julian snaps.
Their dislike for each other was no secret; Julian had long insisted Damiano was bad news. The realization that Julian had known all along who Damiano really was, but never warned me, is a slap in the face. I sigh and try to push the disappointment aside.
“You both can leave. I can do it alone. ” I say mostly to Julian, not wanting to deal with the tension anymore. When he doesn't respond, I tug his hand to get his attention.
“I’m okay, just leave me here,” I say.
He looks at me for a long beat before nodding. When he walks out of the bathroom, I expect Damiano to follow him, but he doesn’t move.
He glares at me as if all his patience has run out.
“What do you want?” I say, closing my eyes, physically shutting him out as my exhaustion catches up with me. When I hear the rustling of fabric, my eyes snap open to see him shrugging out of his black shirt.
“What the hell are you doing?” I snap, my frown deepening.
“You can’t do this alone. Your shoulder is useless, and your feet are cut to ribbons. I’m not going to leave you to fall.”
He pulls his shirt over his head, revealing the tattooed landscape of his chest. The art is a mix of intricate blackwork of angels, script, and thorns.
I’ve seen him shirtless many times before, but it somehow still makes me speechless.
As my eyes cling to the familiar ink and muscle, they snag on a raised marking on his upper right shoulder I’ve never noticed before—a bullet scar.
He walks over to me, his gaze focused on my feet. When he crouches to reach for my ankles, I pry them away in protest, saying, “I don’t need your help.”
He remains silent, completely unbothered.
“You’ll hurt yourself more,” he says calmly after a beat, putting a firm but gentle hold on my ankle.
He stares at them, examining each wound before saying, “Take your shirt off.” I freeze.
“What?!”
He reaches for the buckles of the black medical immobilizer strapped over my chest, his fingers brushing my collarbone in the process. When he looks me in the eyes, his voice drops, the command replaced by a low plea.
"I need to take this off. Can I?”