Chapter Sixteen AURORA
Iwandered into the gym on the top floor with a glass of iced lemonade in my hand and zero patience left.
The sound of fists hitting flesh had been echoing through the house all morning. Grunts. Thuds. The occasional curse. I’d tried reading. I’d tried scrolling on my phone. I’d even tried helping the cook again, but Santino had given me one sharp look and banned me from anything sharper than a spoon.
So here I was. Again.
Matteo was on the mat, breathing hard, blood trickling from a fresh split in his lip. Santino stood over him, shirtless, sweat glistening on his powerful shoulders and back, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
He threw another punch, controlled, precise, and brutal, and Matteo barely blocked it in time.
I leaned against the ropes and watched for about five minutes. Five long, sweaty, testosterone-soaked minutes of Santino dominating the ring like a beautiful, violent king.
Eventually, I sighed loud enough for them both to hear. “This is boring.”
Matteo, still on the ground and bleeding, let out a breathless laugh. “Thank you.”
Santino turned his head slowly, dark eyes locking onto me. His chest was rising and falling, muscles flexing with every breath. The look he gave me made my stomach flip.
“Leave,” he ordered.
“Gladly,” I shot back, turning on my heel.
I made it three steps before Marco, who had been quietly watching from the sidelines with his arms crossed, made the fatal mistake of letting out a low, amused chuckle.
I stopped. Santino’s gaze snapped to him.
Marco’s laughter died as he realized what he’d done.
“Oh no,” he muttered.
Santino wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips. “Perfect. You’re free, Marco. Entertain her.”
Marco looked at me like I was a live grenade. “Boss, I was just…”
“You laughed,” Santino said simply, already turning back to Matteo. “Now you deal with her. Have fun.”
I raised an eyebrow at Marco, who looked deeply regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.
“Great,” I said sweetly, linking my arm through his before he could escape. “You’re stuck with me now. What are we doing?”
Marco sighed, long and suffering, as I dragged him out of the gym. “You’re going to get me killed one day, Aurora.”
“Probably,” I agreed cheerfully. “But first, I’m bored. Entertain me.”
He glanced back toward the ring where Santino was already putting Matteo through another brutal combination. Then he looked at me, resigned.
“Fine. What do you want to do?”
I tapped my chin, thinking. “Something that doesn’t involve watching sweaty men try to murder each other. Maybe… shopping? Or you could teach me how to shoot. Or we could go see that bakery downtown you mentioned last week. Or…”
Marco groaned. “You’re worse than a toddler with a credit card.”
I grinned. “And you’re now my official babysitter. Congratulations.”
As we walked down the hallway, I couldn’t help glancing back toward the gym doors. Even from here, I could hear the dull thud of another punch landing.
Part of me wanted to stay and watch Santino move, all lethal grace and raw power, but the bigger part of me was still buzzing from everything.
From the way he’d lost control just enough to show me his cock. From the way he’d kissed my bandaged hand like it was sacred.
I hated how much I missed him already.
Marco noticed my glance and smirked. “You’ve got it bad.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, cheeks warming. “You’re supposed to be entertaining me, not analyzing me.”
He chuckled again. “This is going to be a long afternoon.”
I smiled innocently up at him. “Consider it payback for that time you helped Santino kidnap me.”
Marco’s expression turned pained. “I’m never laughing again.”
Too late.
He was officially stuck with me.
And he lasted approximately four minutes before I dragged him out of the house.
“Errand day,” he grumbled as we climbed into one of the black SUVs. “I have actual work to do. You’re going to slow me down.”
“Perfect,” I said, buckling my seatbelt with a bright smile. “I’m excellent at slowing people down. It’s one of my best qualities.”
He shot me a withering look and pulled out of the driveway. “I hate you.”
“You hate to love me,” I corrected sweetly. “I’m the little sister you never wanted.”
“I already have enough problems.”
The first stop was a sleek office building downtown. Marco had to meet with some lawyer about “business shit” he refused to explain. I waited in the car for exactly seven minutes before I started poking at the radio.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned when he got back in.
“Too late. Why do you only listen to depressing music? Do you want to die sad?” I questioned.
Marco didn’t answer. He just sighed like a man who had accepted his fate.
Next stop: a warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Then a meeting with a supplier. Then a quiet drop-off at some discreet location where Marco told me to “stay in the fucking car and don’t look out the window.”
“What’s in the bag?” I asked when he returned, clutching a carrier.
“None of your business.”
“Is it guns? Drugs? Severed heads?” I wagged my brows.
Marco rubbed his temple. “You’re exhausting.”
“You’re stuck with me all day,” I reminded him cheerfully. “Might as well tell me something interesting.”
He refused.
I kept trying anyway.
At a fancy tailor shop where he was picking up Santino’s suits, I held up a particularly ridiculous patterned tie. “This one. You should get this for Santino. It would look adorable on him.”
Marco stared at me like I’d suggested setting the place on fire. “He wears black only.”
“Boring. I’m going to convince him to wear color one day.”
“You’ll die trying,” he muttered. “Only time I’ve seen him wear color was at your wedding.”
“I’m so special,” I grinned. Marco grunted something, and I laughed. “You really are starting to love me. Now say it.”
“Fuck no.”
I batted my lashes at him. “Please? For your favorite hostage?”
He turned away, jaw tight, clearly fighting a smile. “I don’t love anything.”
“Liar. I’m growing on you. Like mold. Or a very charming fungus.”
Marco exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “Santino is going to kill me for not dropping you off at the bottom of the river.”
“He likes me too much now,” I said smugly. “You saw how he lost his mind over a paper cut. He’s obsessed.”
Marco muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “whipped.”
I grinned. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Be honest,” I said next. “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you regret laughing in the gym this morning?”
“Eleven,” he said.
I laughed, and for the first time all day, I saw the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Progress.
As we drove through the city, the sun starting to dip lower, I felt strangely light. Marco was grumpy, sarcastic, and clearly counting down the minutes until he could hand me back to Santino, but there was something almost… nice about it.
He felt like family. Annoying, reluctant, perpetually irritated family. And for a girl who had lost almost everything, that didn’t feel half bad.
“Last question,” I said as we pulled up to the final destination.
Marco groaned. “What now?”
“Do you think Santino will be done training yet? I kind of miss the non-sweaty, not-as-violent version of him.”
Marco looked like he wanted to drive the car into a wall.
“I’m begging you,” he said flatly. “Never say anything like that to me again.”
The final stop was a tiny bakery tucked between a closed florist and a cobbler’s shop on a narrow side street. The rain had started just as we parked, soft at first, then steady, the kind that turns the city into watercolor streaks on the windows. Marco killed the engine with a long-suffering sigh.
“Five minutes,” he warned. “In and out.”
I unbuckled, already grinning. “You say that like I don’t know how to behave in public.”
“You don’t,” he hissed.
The bell above the door gave a cheerful jingle as we stepped inside. Warmth wrapped around us, sugar, espresso, vanilla, and something buttery that made my stomach rumble.
The café was small, only a handful of tables covered in red-checkered cloths, a few elderly patrons nursing tiny cups of coffee while rain pattered against the windows. It felt like stepping into someone’s nonna’s kitchen.
An old man with flour-dusted apron and kind eyes looked up from behind the counter. His face lit up the second he saw Marco.
“Marco! Figlio mio,” he called, coming around the counter faster than a man his age should move. He pulled Marco into a quick, back-slapping hug. “You brought company today?”
Before Marco could answer, the baker’s gaze landed on me. His smile softened, turning almost grandfatherly. “Ah. La ragazza di Santo. We heard about you.”
My eyebrows shot up. La ragazza di Santo. The girl of Santo.
Not Santino. Santo. Like they’d known him since he was small enough to steal cookies from the display case.
Marco cleared his throat, looking mildly embarrassed. “Signore Brunetti, this is Aurora. Aurora, Signore Brunetti makes the best cannoli in the city.”
“Only because Santo taught my grandson the secret to the filling when he was twelve,” Signor Rossi said with a wink. He didn’t wait for me to respond, just started boxing up pastries like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Tell him we miss his face around here. The boy works too hard.”
He slid an extra box across the counter, free, filled with sfogliatelle, almond cookies, and a couple of glistening cannoli dusted so perfectly they looked like art.
“For you, cara. On the house. You tell Santo to come see us soon, eh? Bring his appetite.”
I accepted the box, a little stunned. “I… will.”
Marco paid for our order anyway, but Signore Brunetti waved off half the money with a stubborn shake of his head.
A little boy, maybe six or seven, peeked out from behind the counter, clutching a half-eaten biscuit. His eyes went wide when he saw Marco.
“Is Mister Santo coming today?” he asked, voice full of hope. “He promised he’d show me how to punch like him next time.”