Chapter 11 Angelo
ELEVEN
Angelo
Luisa’s confused over the next few days, which is to be expected.
She was in a short coma, advised by one of Eric’s doctor friends.
She didn’t just get knocked around when the ambulance flipped.
She cracked her skull. Luckily, that bit of extra space–according to the scans–gave her brain enough room to swell without killing her.
She’s on mandated leave–four months minimum–and I’m deep in witness protection. I should be clawing to get out. Instead, I feel it in my blood—this freedom from my father’s control.
Maybe it’s genetic. Maybe Emilia’s rebellion was always a Rossi flaw.
Because watching Luisa vulnerable, bleeding, at the mercy of men I once commanded—
It changed something in me. And I don’t think I’ll ever go back.
I’ve never taken lives so swiftly or with such satisfaction. Two headshots, and any others, if there were any lurking in the shadows, they wisely postponed their attack for another day.
Luisa squirms in her sleep, as she always does before she wakes. I cup her cheek, trying to make it easy. Her memory isn’t great. She doesn’t say much either, just looks around, dazed, blinking, searching.
Like clockwork—”Starling?”
The cat chirps and nuzzles against her, pressing close.
One week and she’s still sleeping more than she’s awake. I need to take her to another doctor. I brush my fingers along her hairline, tracing one of the two wounds she suffered. This one’s healing. The other, I’m not so sure.
I lean in, my lips ghosting over the scar at her temple.
“You’re supposed to be a ... a mafia man,” Luisa mumbles, her voice thick, sluggish.
“And you’re supposed to be taking care of me.” My voice is low, steady, but my pulse isn’t.
She blinks, her brows drawing together, like she’s piecing something together that won’t quite fit.
“I’m broken,” she notes. “I ... I have to be. Words are hard and ... I don’t know where...” She tries to stand. Not happening.
I tighten my grip, guiding her back down. “You’re not getting up. Not until I get a doctor here,” I growl.
She blinks at me, then touches my face, running her fingers over my light beard. “You look better with a beard. I like you without all the ... styling.”
“I will not let you forget you said that, Luisa. You like me.”
She smirks, lazy and slow. “No one will believe you.”
I scoff, my grip tightening to remind her I’m here. “I don’t give a shit,” I snarl. “I care about your head getting better, so you can sass me again.”
She huffs. “I’ll kick your ass in the...” her brow furrows. “Did I punch you?”
I chuckle, my lips curling. “We did plenty in my boxing ring. Stay right here with Starling. I’m grabbing my phone,” I say, pressing my lips against her temple.
She mutters something in Spanish, too soft to catch.
Then, clearer—“Pendejo.”
I grin, letting the warmth spread through me.
“I like you too, Topolina.”
I get through to the doctor, and give her the option of showing up to check on my woman or spending time at the bottom of the canal outside my house. She promises to be here in less than an hour.
Nodding, I return to Luisa’s room to see her on the window seat, staring out at the canal below. Starling sits on her lap, purring so loud I can hear it from the doorway.
“Venice,” Luisa murmurs, eyes tracking the gondolas drifting by.
“Yes.”
“Not Rome?”
I smirk. “Not Rome. My family has power here. Another family runs Rome, but they’ve been too busy cleaning up after a war with the Russians to bother with us.”
“Lots of mafias?” Luisa asks, still watching the Gondolas. She still sounds groggy. “Like ... like cartels?”
I slide my fingers through her hair, brushing it back. “More organized, but just as bloody.”
She leans into my touch before catching herself. Her expression sharpens. “Are you going to bite me if I take care of you, Luisa?”
She doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
I grin. “I’m going to do it anyway.”
She looks up at me. Her eyes are still a little dull, but the bruises have faded. The whites of her eyes are clear. She can focus again.
All good signs.
I show her a brush and, as promised, she tries to bite me. I offer her my thumb instead, she just grazes me with her teeth before I drag the pad of that same finger across her full bottom lip.
A slow, silent standoff.
Neither of us says much after that. Not until the doctor arrives.
The doctor explains that Luisa is healing well, but we should still check in at a hospital to monitor her brain activity and watch for signs of change.
“Today,” I say in agreement.
The doctor sighs. “Sir, you have to make an appointment.”
I grit my teeth as I stare down at the doctor, my hands clenched at my thighs. “I’ll be there today one way or another. Would you like me to remove someone from the list to make space, or will you make room?”
She swallows. “Six p.m..”
I nod. The doctor practically flees.
Luisa, still watching me. “I don’t have a passport.”
“I took care of it, vita mia,” I say assuring her, kissing her forehead. “Sit up for me.”
She sits up, and I guide her forward. Drawing her close, I provide a comforting space for her to rest her head on my shoulder.
My fingers weave through her hair, rocking to untangle the knots, wary of using a brush.
Mimicking what I’ve seen in online videos, I’ve been determined to care for her without relying on Emilia for help.
“What do you remember?” I ask.
“Fire ... a pool. Um... yelling, I think. The ambulance, then nothing. I woke up here. Why was there a fire? Wasn’t I supposed to be there? What about work? What about-”
“One question at a time. I’ll answer all of them.”
“I hate you,” she murmurs, her expression contorted as she gazes at me. “Don’t I?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to tell me.”
Over the next week, Luisa gets stronger. She fights the doctor’s tests. Glares through consultations. Picks at her food like it’s laced with arsenic. But, she regains her strength.
She eats without arguing.
She sings to her cat by the window, her voice soft and comforting.
She organizes my messes with sharp little sighs and judgmental looks, but she does it.
She’s getting better.
Despite my aching need to shower her with kisses until she remembers everything, to hold her close and claim what’s mine, I don’t rush her.
Her memories are still a mess. Fragments, gaps, flickers of clarity mixed with confusion. Every day there’s more of her coming back.
More bite. More sass.
More of the Luisa, who glares at police shows and scoffs at ‘inaccuracies.’
Ten days after she wakes up—I wake up alone.
I bolt upright.
Panic rips through me before I spot Starling—her cat, named after some FBI agent in a movie—pacing outside the bathroom.
I move fast. Open the door.
Did she fall? Hit her head? Undo all her progress?
Is she bleeding out?
Or worse. Did one of my father’s men get to her even here?
My pulse pounds. My breath sharpens.
I need her where I can see her. Where I can protect her.
“Angelo, you’re supposed to ask before coming in.”
Luisa’s voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it.
I look at her through the glass door of the shower. She’s thinner than she was in Chicago, but still just as beautiful. Her full breasts, her thick curvy body, those gorgeous dark eyes, her almost smile.
“Are you just going to stare?” She chuckles.
“I was worried,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’ll respect your privacy-”
“You didn’t after our second round,” she interrupts. “During…you know.”
Her voice drops, switching to Spanish. I know it’s easier for her right now.
“When you were under house arrest. When you fucked me. You got in the shower with me, Angelo.”
My fingers twitch. My chest tightens.
“Are you inviting me, Luisa?” I take a slow step forward.
Her lips curve, teasing. “I’m daring you.”
She tilts her chin up, eyes burning into mine. “Daring you to take what you want.”
A challenge. A trap.
“Are you going to?”
She opens the door and leans back against the wall, naked, suds rolling over her curves.
Fuck.
She’s so fucking beautiful it’s not fair that she exists, but I’m so glad she does. I drag my tongue over my bottom lip.
“I’m not going to touch you,” I warn as I take a step closer. “Not until you tell me you want me.”
I unbutton my shirt and her gaze strokes over me. She takes a slow breath. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’m going to shower with you and keep my hands to myself.”
“Sure, sure. I bet your cock doesn’t like the sound of that,” she sasses.
“What happened to your awkward flirting, Lusia?”
“I think the awkward side got... knocked out,” she taps her temple.
I break my word. My hand catches hers before I can stop myself, pulling her close. I check her temple, searching for anything—any pain, any hesitation.
Her free hand drags my zipper down. My pulse slams. She steps closer, presses her lips to my chest—soft, warm, mine.
“You’re going to fuck me,” she decides.
“Is that so?”
Her dark eyes flick up, sharp, sure.
“You don’t get to look at me like you—like you don’t hate me, take care of me, let me bite you, sleep in the same bed as me—and not fuck me.”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt, dragging me down, daring me.
“Luisa,” I groan, my hands finding her face, rubbing my nose against hers.
Her lips hover close, so fucking close.
“If you kiss me, you have to fuck me,” she breathes. “Otherwise, it’s too sweet.”
I chuckle, low and dark. “Is it?”
“And I don’t like you sweet, Angelo. I remember that,” she murmurs, pulling herself closer to me, her nails grazing my abs as she jerks my jeans down.
Fuck.
She drags them lower, lower, until I step out of them, kicking them aside. Her hands are all over me—hungry, certain.
“You heard the doctor. I’m okay. No more brain swelling.” Her voice drops, teasing, but her eyes are serious. “I just have some memory issues.”
Her fingers curl around my waistband. “So remind me.”
“Yes. I’ve memorized it, Topolina,” I promise, fitting my mouth to hers.
She draws back. “I like ‘vita mia’ better.”
“You know that one?” I guess. “You remember me saying it?”
“Yeah. Pretty close in Spanish,” she says, her fingers skimming my hips, light and teasing. She shifts, her belly brushes my hardening cock, sending a sharp jolt of heat through me.
But I don’t move.
Because her eyes have me trapped.
The way she watches me—half-defiant, half-vulnerable. The way her lips curve, teasing but sweet.
And the way she feels in my hands—delicate but untamed.
I tighten my grip on her waist, voice low. “Vita mia. My life.”
Seeing her willing to fight anyone or anything for me, her yelling and furious because I promised I’d live, and now this soft expression. I want to see everything in between, everything except the flat confusion she first looked at me with when she woke up like she didn’t know who I was.
“You’re never allowed to forget who I am again,” I say, backing her against the wall of the shower.
“If I do?” she sasses me.
“Then I’ll have to shake some memories back into you.”
“There are better ways to do that,” she says, still touching me, guiding me closer. “If you don’t kiss me right now, Angelo, I’m going to get sweet with you.”
I groan and kiss her, parting her lips with my tongue, holding onto her as tightly as I can without hurting her. I’ll live to keep protecting her, to take care of her, to make sure she knows that she’s more than just some cop to me. She’s ...
No words come to mind as I kiss her. She nips at my tongue, but always pulls me closer, touching me, digging her nails into me, working me up until not fucking her isn’t an option. But I don’t want to do it in a shower. I don’t want her to slip.
So I finish cleaning her, pull her out of the shower, and take my time toweling her off until she moans. “You’re torturing me.”
“Am I?”
“I want you, Angelo. I want to have sex with you. I want to stay here with you. I want to kiss you every day. Stop making me wait. My head is good enough for all of that,” she says. “Stop treating me like I’m broken.”
“You want some action, vita mia?”
“No. I want you,” she clarifies, her voice steady, sure.
Then she shoves me.
I stumble back, my smirk growing. She shoves me again—harder this time, her dark eyes locked onto mine, daring me.
One more push, and I let it happen. My back hits the bed, and I look up at her—amused, wrecked for her, fucking starving.
She straddles me, pinning me with her body, her breath hot against my lips.
“You fight me on everything, but you never fight this,” she murmurs.
I grip her hips, grinding up against her. “Why would I fight something I want just as bad?”
She leans in, brushing her lips over mine—light, teasing. “Then shut up and take it, Rossi.”
And fuck, I do.