Chapter 21 NORA
NORA
Barely an hour ago, Luca and I were standing on his private terrace under the warm night breeze. We finally dropped our guard, talked like two real human beings, and wound up tangled together against the stone balustrade in the dark. It felt like a rare truce in the middle of a war.
Now the first rifle shot cracks past the east wall, and that fragile peace shatters into dust. The security sirens begin to wail. Before my brain catches up, Luca grabs my upper arm and shoves me hard behind a thick marble pillar, treating me like dead weight that needs saving.
Luca hauls me back by the crook of my elbow, yanking a sleek Beretta from under his jacket like it was born there. "Stay down."
I grab his sleeve anyway. "Where the hell do you think you're going? You look like you're about to cosplay action hero and I hate that movie."
He snorts, a sharp, humorless sound that makes me want to kick his shin. "Then don't watch the fucking sequel." He peels my fingers off his sleeve and vanishes into the smoke, Matteo and Adrian reach him like attack dogs off the leash.
I break from behind the pillar and bolt toward the archway.
Gunfire rattles through the stone corridor, sharp and deafening, and the stink of burned gunpowder burns my nostrils.
Ahead in the open courtyard, Enzo drops to one knee behind the marble basin, firing blind past the spray.
A figure in black slips around the rim, raising a handgun straight at Enzo's spine.
I grab a heavy clay flower pot off the railing, hoist the weight with both arms, and heave it.
The pot cracks hard against the side of his skull with a sickening crunch.
The shooter crumples face-first into the wet gravel and stays still.
Enzo spins to cover me with his weapon up. "Nice arm. You free next weekend? We could use a new pitcher."
"Fuck your baseball metaphors and duck," I shout back. Another round sparks off the stone near my hip. I drop, heart trying to climb out of my throat.
Muzzle flash cuts the dark along the colonnade.
Luca steps clear of the arches, weapon up, firing twice with steady, mechanical rhythm.
Two men drop against the gravel. A rifle cracks from the hedge line; Luca's left shoulder jerks hard, fabric tearing open as wet red soaks through his collar.
His right arm stays locked, squeezing off three rapid rounds into the bushes until the rifle clatters against flagstones and the remaining boots scramble back toward the tree line.
The courtyard goes dead except for the hiss of the shattered fountain. Luca lowers his weapon, chest heaving in ragged hitches. His boots scuff the gravel as his frame tilts sideways. His jaw clamps shut, fighting the drop, but his knees give out beneath him and fold toward the dirt.
"Luca!" I bolt across the flagstones. Matteo catches him under the arms before his head hits stone. There is too much blood, far too much crimson for someone who was lecturing me about deadbolts two hours ago.
"Infirmary," Adrian barks, hoisting half of Luca's weight onto his shoulder. "Now. Enzo, lock down the north perimeter. Nonna, get the hall cleared before someone tracks mud on your tiles."
I stay glued to Luca's side the entire way. His eyes are open but glassy, jaw locked like he's personally offended by the bullet. When they lay him on the infirmary table he tries to sit up.
I shove both palms against his uninjured shoulder to pin him flat to the bed. "Don't you fucking dare. You took a bullet from a Bellini amateur. Lie down before I sit on your ribs."
His mouth quirks, a faint, bloody smirk that makes me want to shake him. "Kinky. Save the dirty talk for when I'm not leaking on the floor."
"He's cracking jokes while bleeding everywhere," I yell toward the ceiling, throwing my hands up. "Someone knock him out before I do it myself."
In the doorway, Matteo rubs grime off his knuckles with a rag. "Please don't hit the boss with anything. The cleanup is bad enough already."
The doctor, a grim older man who looks like he's seen every Moretti bleed at least once, waves us back and starts cutting fabric.
I refuse to leave. I stand at the head of the bed and card my fingers through Luca's hair while they dig metal out of muscle.
He barely flinches. Of course he doesn't. Control freak to the bone, even when half-unconscious.
Hours blur. The estate settles into that tense post-battle quiet where everyone pretends they're fine and nobody is. Dawn is a gray smear against the windows when the doctor finally packs the last of the gauze and mutters something about rest and no sudden movements.
Everyone else filters out into the gray corridor.
Matteo claps my shoulder once, giving me a rare, exhausted nod.
Sofia leaves two bottles of water on the rolling tray, catching my eye with a look that acknowledges how thin the margin was.
Then the heavy door clicks shut, leaving me with Luca and the rhythmic ping of a vitals monitor that feels far too loud in the quiet.
I drag a chair close enough that my knees bump the mattress. His eyes open halfway.
"You look like shit." His dry throat turns the syllables into rough gravel, broken by a harsh cough.
"You look like hell on a slab. Drink this and shut up." I guide the plastic cup toward his chin. He sips greedily, then his long fingers wrap around my wrist when I attempt to pull back.
His thumb presses lightly against my pulse point. "You stayed."
I roll my eyes and fight the lump forming in my throat. "Of course I stayed, you idiot. Someone has to make sure you don't try to get up with a hole in your chest. Besides, out there, I really thought you were dead. I hated that feeling more than anything."
His thumb strokes along the tendon of my wrist. "I am right here."
I rest my forehead gently against his, letting his warm skin calm the crazy pounding in my chest. "Barely. You don't get to die right after we finally started talking to each other. That would piss me off too much."
He chuckles, the sound cutting off into a wince when his shoulder pulls against the clean bandage. "Sorry about that. Next time someone shoots at me, I'll check with your schedule first."
"See? You can be trained." I lean down and press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, careful of the tight pain lines etching his forehead. He tilts his head to catch my lips, refusing to let me pull back, deepening the kiss with a desperate, heavy hunger that makes my chest ache.
When I pull back his gaze is darker. Clearer.
"Nora," he rumbles. His fingers slide into the hair at the base of my head, his grip tightening until his knuckles press hard against my skin, his chest hitching on a sharp, hitched breath. "I need you close."
"Good," I breathe against his jaw, feeling the stubble catch on my cheek. "Because I am not leaving this room."
I stand and lock the infirmary door. When I come back he is already trying to shift over on the narrow bed.
I help him, gently, until there is space.
Then I strip out of the ruined dress, shoes, everything, until I'm bare under the harsh medical lights.
His eyes track every inch like he's memorizing proof I'm still whole.
"Get over here," he growls, his voice thick and demanding.
I climb on carefully, straddling his hips but keeping my weight off the bandaged shoulder.
His good hand slides up my thigh, possessive and shaking at the same time.
I lean down and kiss him again, deeper this time, pouring every leftover terror into it.
He answers with teeth and tongue and a low sound that vibrates straight through me.
"Slow down," I breathe against his lips, my hands framing his jaw. "You're completely wrecked. We do this slow, or I swear to God I'll stop and lecture you about internal bleeding."
"Bossy little bird." His fingers slide between my thighs, finding me slick and dripping from the adrenaline of almost losing him. He strokes me once, heavy and deliberate, watching my eyes dilate. "Fuck, look at you swell around my hand."
I tilt my pelvis into his touch. "Look at you. Half-dead with a hole in your shoulder and you're still trying to dictate the pace. You arrogant prick."
He laughs, genuine and wrecked, then guides himself to my entrance. I sink down inch by inch, gasping at the stretch, at how full he feels even like this. When I'm seated completely we both go still, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"You okay?" I whisper, checking his face for pain.
"More than fucking okay." His good hand clamps down hard on my hip, anchoring me. "Ride me, Nora. Right now."
I do. Slow rolls at first, careful, letting the heat build instead of crash.
Every downward slide drags a quiet curse out of him.
Every upward grind makes my thighs shake.
The desperation is still there, raw under the surface, but we keep it tender because anything rougher might tear the stitches or the fragile thing between us.
My hips move in a steady, torturous rhythm. "Talk to me. I need to hear you breathe. I need to know you're fucking alive."
"I'm right here." His dark eyes lock onto mine, burning with a fierce intensity. "You're squeezing me so tight, like you're afraid I'll vanish. I'm not going anywhere, Nora. Not when you feel this fucking incredible. Not when you stayed."
I sink down all the way, resting my forehead against his neck. "I almost threw a metal tray at the doctor when he told me to get out. The poor guy looked terrified. It was pretty great."
Luca's laugh breaks into a groan. "Violent little thing. Come here."
I lean down so he can kiss me properly. The angle changes everything. Pleasure coils tighter, sharper. His hand slips between us, thumb circling my clit with filthy patience while I ride him. Sweat slicks our skin. The monitor beeps faster. Neither of us cares.
My nails dig into his uninjured bicep as the friction tips me right over the edge. "Luca, please. I cannot hold it."
He thrusts upward with devastating precision, jaw tight. "Then let go. Give it to me right now."
The orgasm hits slow and devastating, rolling through me in waves that leave me trembling and gasping his name like a prayer I don't believe in. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a broken sound, good arm locked around my waist as he spills inside me.
We stay locked together afterward, breathing the same air, neither willing to separate yet. When I finally ease off he winces but keeps hold of my hand.
His fingers wrap around my hand with quiet urgency instead of his usual smug command. "Stay here."
"Was already planning on it." I clean us both with warm cloths from the sink, gentle over his bandages, then crawl back onto the bed on his uninjured side. He tugs the thin blanket over us. His fingers comb through my hair, slow and steady.
"You panicked back there," he whispers against the crown of my head, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek.
"No fucking shit I was scared. You bled all over the stone looking like a goddamn dramatic oil painting. Next time, get shot somewhere less vital. An ankle. An earlobe. Something I can actually make fun of you for."
He lets out a low, rough laugh into my hair. "I'll make sure to ask you where to get shot next time."
I rest a careful hand on his chest and whisper, "You better. My hourly rate is way too high for this bullshit, but I guess you get a discount."
I press a kiss to his chest, right above the steady thud of his heart. "I meant what I said on the balcony. Past the sex. Past the war. I care about you so much it makes me stupid. Watching you go down tonight just made it louder."
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. "Same. Losing you would completely destroy me. We don't let that happen. Understand?"
"Understood." I tilt my chin up to flash him a wicked smirk. "But I'm still burning your favorite Tom Ford suit the next time you move my bedroom without asking. Fair warning, asshole."
"I'd expect nothing less." He kisses my forehead, lingering. "Sleep. I've got you."
For the first time since the shots started, I believe him. Outside the infirmary the estate is quiet again. Inside, wrapped around the man I almost lost, I let the last walls crumble and finally rest.