Chapter 45
GIA
The water in my private surgical sink runs scalding hot, turning the stainless steel basin into a bowl of rising steam.
She survived. Her pulse is steady. Casa Lucia Hospital’s very first emergency trauma intake was a success.
I turn off the tap with my elbow and dry my hands on a crisp white towel. Stepping out of my private scrub washroom, I walk into my office on the sixth floor.
The room is vast, quiet, and flooded with the dark indigo hues of midnight.
Through the six-foot floor-to-ceiling glass wall, the border city lights twinkle in the distance like scattered embers.
Right in the center of the room sits my custom dark walnut desk, heavy, smooth, and smelling faintly of beeswax and hand-rubbed timber.
I let out a long, ragged exhale, leaning my lower back against the edge of the desk, tracing the polished wood grain with my thumb.
Then, behind me, the heavy electronic lock engages.
Thud-click.
I don’t startle. My pulse doesn’t spike in fear. Instead, it does that wild, breathless flutter it has done every single time Luca Valentino enters a room since the first time he looked at me one second too long.
I look up. Luca stands by the heavy oak door.
He has already discarded his tie, his top three shirt buttons unfastened to reveal the dark hair at the base of his throat.
He takes off his tailored suit jacket, tossing it casually over the arm of the leather sofa, his dark eyes locked onto mine with an intensity so fierce it feels like a physical touch.
“You should be asleep in the compound, husband,” I say softly.
“And miss watching my wife rule her kingdom?” Luca’s voice is a low rumble that vibrates straight down my spine.
He crosses the room with that silent, predatory grace, stopping right in front of me.
He doesn’t touch me yet. He just stands there, towering over me, his gaze dropping to my hands resting on the edge of the desk.
My fingers flex involuntarily, a micro-spasm in my right palm from holding the vascular clamps for so long.
Luca’s jaw tightens. His eyes soften with an agonizingly sweet, devotional concern.
“Your hands are cramping, cara,” he murmurs.
“It was a four-hour repair,” I whisper, looking up into his harsh, gorgeous face. “My muscles always tighten after an arterial bypass.”
Before I can say another word, Luca reaches into his vest pocket. He pulls out a small, amber glass jar and sets it on the walnut desk beside me.
My chest tightens. I know that jar.
It’s my custom hand salve. A specific blend of raw shea butter, calendula, and lavender that I used to mix during my residency to keep my skin from cracking under surgical scrubs.
When he exiled himself to his port office, he had memorized the exact proportions from my bathroom counter and had it recreated by an apothecary in Milan.
“Luca...” My voice breaks softly.
He doesn’t answer with words. The Don of the Valentino regime, a man whose name strikes absolute terror into the hearts of Cosa Nostra, drops smoothly to his knees on the hardwood floor between my legs.
My breath hitches in my throat. My heart completely unspools in my chest.
“Sit back, principessa,” he commands gently, his calloused hands sliding up my calves, settling over my knees to steady me against the desk.
I sit back onto the edge of the walnut desk, my emerald silk dress pooling around my thighs. I melt completely, every defensive instinct dissolving into pure, liquid swoon as I look down at my husband kneeling at my feet.
Luca unscrews the glass lid. The soothing scent of sweet lavender and rich calendula fills the quiet office, blending instantly with his signature scent of expensive leather and dark cedarwood.
He scoops a dollop of the warm, rich salve onto his palms and gently takes my right hand. His broad thumbs press into the center of my palm, working out the tight knot near my thumb blade with slow, firm, agonizingly perfect pressure.
A soft, helpless sigh escapes my lips, my head tilting back against the dark air. “Oh... Dio.”
“Good?” Luca rumbles, his thumbs executing tiny, deliberate circles over the aching tendons of my wrist, right over the spot where my surgical silk ties had bound me to him in his office.
“It’s incredible,” I breathe, my eyes fluttering open to watch him.
He is so meticulous, so devastatingly thorough.
He massages every single joint, every finger, tracing up to the tips that hold scalpels and save lives.
There is no violence in his hands right now.
There is only raw, unadulterated worship.
He looks like a warrior who has finally laid down his sword at his chosen altar.
“Healed hands,” Luca whispers, bringing my palm to his mouth and pressing a deep, lingering kiss to the center of my hand. “Brilliant hands. Hands that belong to the Queen of this empire.”
My eyes burn with happy, emotional tears. I lean forward, sliding my freshly massaged fingers into his thick, dark hair, cupping the back of his strong neck.
“This desk was ordered for signing trauma rosters and administrative permits, husband,” I whisper.
Luca looks up, his dark eyes burning with dark desire. “Tonight, principessa, it’s meant for worshipping the surgeon who owns my soul.”
He rises from his knees in one fluid movement, crowding my space until his chest presses against mine.
I don’t step back. I pull him closer, my hands sliding under his unbuttoned collar, feeling the burning heat of his skin. Luca growls softly into my mouth, his arms wrapping around my waist as he lifts me effortlessly, setting me fully onto the center of my desk.
A stack of preliminary trauma rosters scatters across the hardwood floor, but neither of us cares.
“Luca,” I gasp as his mouth comes down on mine.
The kiss is slow, deep, and scorching—a breathtaking mix of redeemed trust and wild, uninhibited hunger. He tastes like dark espresso and pure devotion. My arms wrap tightly around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him deeper, surrender meeting surrender.
His large hands slide down to the hem of my emerald silk dress.
Slowly, deliberately, he hikes the smooth fabric up, gathering it around my waist until my bare thighs are exposed to the cool night air of the office.
He steps between my open knees, his broad body filling every inch of space between us.
Luca breaks the kiss, dropping his head to my neck. His lips track a slow, burning path down my jaw, over my pulse point, and down to my collarbone, making my skin goosebump. His hands cup my hips, pressing me firmly against the hard ridge of his arousal through his trousers.
“Tell me you’re fucking mine, Gia,” he growls against my throat, his hands squeezing my waist with possessive restraint. “Tell me you’re not running.”
“I’m yours, Luca,” I whisper, my fingers tugging wildly at his shirt buttons, popping the last two open so I can press my bare palms against his broad, scarred chest. “I was yours the moment you built this place for me. I’m never running again.”
A dark, triumphant sound rumbles in his chest. Luca unbuckles his belt, unfastening his trousers with quick, practiced efficiency. He reaches down, shifting my silk lace panties aside, his long, warm fingers finding my wet, aching pussy.
I gasp out loud, my back arching off the desk as his thumb finds my sweet spot, caressing me with rhythmic, maddening precision.
“You’re so wet for me, cara,” he rasps into my ear, his breath hot against my shell. “So soft.”
“Because I love you,” I cry out softly, my hands gripping his broad shoulders, my hips instinctively lifting into his touch. “Take me, Luca. Right here. On my desk.”
Luca doesn’t hesitate. He guides his thick, hard cock into me. He pauses for one agonizing, breathless second, his eyes locking onto mine, waiting for my final nod.
I pull his face down to mine, meeting his gaze with absolute, unyielding agency. “Now, husband.”
He drives home in one deep, heavy thrust.
I let out a breathless, shattered cry as he fills me completely, my legs instantly wrapping around his waist, locking him tight against me. The cool walnut desk beneath my thighs is a stark, thrilling contrast to the scorching heat of his body invading mine.
Luca buries his face in my neck, groaning sharply as he begins a slow, devastatingly deep rhythm. Every stroke is possessive, every thrust a vow. He claims me not as a Don taking a prize, but as a husband giving his entire body and soul to his wife.
“Look at me, principessa,” he rumbles, lifting his head.
I open my eyes, locking my gaze onto his. Watching his fierce, handsome face strain with raw pleasure as he moves inside me is the most intoxicating sight on earth. I take charge of the rhythm, lifting my hips to meet his thrusts, setting a pace that makes him growl aloud.
“Gia... Dio, you’re destroying me,” he groans, his hands gripping my hips tightly, driving deeper, faster, matching my energy with unbridled passion.
The friction is unbearable, a mounting wave of electric heat building at the base of my spine. The room shrinks down to the sound of our ragged breathing, the slap of skin against skin, and the intense, overwhelming love filling every corner of my office.
“Luca... I’m close,” I sob softly, my fingers digging into his back.
“Come for me, vita mia,” he rasps, his hips snapping forward in a hard, relentless tempo. “Let me feel you fall.”
The tension snaps. A blinding, golden explosion of pleasure shatters through my entire body. I cry out his name into the quiet office, my inner muscles pulsing around him in tight, violent waves.
Seeing me shatter completely undoes him. Luca lets out a guttural growl, thrusting deep one last time, his body going rigid as he pours himself into me, his forehead resting against mine as we ride out the explosive, shared climax together.
Minutes pass in a soft, hazy bliss.
The floor-to-ceiling glass reflects the pale moonlight, casting a silver glow over the dark walnut desk. Luca sits on the edge of the desk, his trousers pulled up, his shirt open. I sit sideways in his lap, completely wrapped in his heavy wool suit jacket, my bare legs dangling over his thighs.
My head rests against his chest, listening to the steady, strong thrum of his heartbeat beneath his skin. His heavy arm is clamped securely around my waist, holding me like I’m made of precious glass.
His amber salve jar sits beside my elbow, a sweet reminder of the tender care that started this entire night.
“We scattered my preliminary trauma rosters across the floor,” I observe softly, a playful smile curving my lips as I point a manicured finger at the papers on the hardwood.
Luca leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my temple. “I’ll have my secretary reprint them in the morning.”
“I think my Chief Surgeon’s desk has been officially initiated,” I whisper, turning my face into his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of cedarwood, lavender, and satisfied husband.
Luca’s hand tightens around my waist, his thumb tracing the soft curve of my hip.
“Every door in this hospital leads to you, Gia,” he says. “Every piece of steel I laid was for this moment. You gave me a second chance I didn’t deserve.”
I reach up, my thumb gently tracing the old scar across his knuckle. The hand that massaged mine so tenderly, the hand that guards my world.
“You earned it, Luca,” I say, looking into his dark eyes with total, absolute certainty. “We built this empire together. And tomorrow, we walk into the world as one.”
Luca smiles—a rare, genuine, blindingly handsome smile that makes my heart swell to bursting. He takes my surgical hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing my knuckles one by one.
“As one, principessa,” he vows softly. “Always.”