CHAPTER EIGHTEEN #2
The sheer crushing weight of that confession slammed into her chest like a freight train.
It was an admission of devotion. He was tethering his very existence to her heartbeat.
For a woman who had spent thirty years relying on no one, who had fought tooth and nail to remain untethered, the magnitude of his love was overwhelming.
She was caught instantly between a flare of defensive anger and a tidal wave of suffocating emotion.
"You are a moron," Cassia choked out, her voice cracking.
To her horror, hot, furious tears began to spill over her eyelashes, tracking down her pale cheeks.
She hated crying. She hated the vulnerability.
Frustration bubbled up inside her, hot and suffocating, because she couldn't logic her way out of how much she cared about him, and she couldn't erase the truth that she had become his entire world.
"You're a stupid, reckless moron," she whispered, her hands coming up to hit his chest weakly, the fight draining out of her.
Dante didn't argue. He didn't defend himself.
He stepped forward and pulled her flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around her.
He held her tight, tucking her head beneath his chin, burying his face in her auburn hair.
He kissed the crown of her head, offering steady affection as the frustration and the tears worked their way out of her system.
He absorbed her anger, anchoring her in the storm, until she finally let out a long, shuddering sigh and wrapped her own arms around his waist, burying her face in his shirt.
But the brutal reality of the mafia meant that his enemies inevitably learned of this new vulnerability.
Whispers traveled through the underbelly of Rome.
A trauma surgeon. An orphan with no family, no backing, and no real connection to their world of violence and power.
To the rival faction that eventually decided to act on this information, Cassia looked like nothing more than an easy mark.
Harmless. Unprepared. The perfect leverage to bring Dante Fazzari to his knees.
They badly, catastrophically underestimated who Dr. Cassia Thorn was.
It happened on one evening. Cassia was walking home from the hospital, the collar of her coat turned up against the wind. The street was quiet, the amber glow of the streetlamps casting long shadows against the brick walls.
As she crossed an intersection two blocks from her apartment, a dark sedan aggressively cut the corner, screeching to a halt, blocking her path on the sidewalk.
Three men stepped out. They were broad, heavily tattooed, their faces twisted into ugly, confident sneers. One of them pulled a steel pipe from his jacket; another flicked open a switchblade.
Cassia stopped. She didn't scream. She didn't reach for her phone.
She let out a long, incredibly tired sigh, shifting her canvas tote bag from her shoulder to the crook of her arm.
"I really do not have time for this," Cassia muttered.
The man with the steel pipe lunged forward, swinging the weapon in a brutal arc aimed at her shoulder.
Cassia handled it with the exact same cold, calm efficiency she had carried with her since childhood. Dealing with thugs and threats was nothing new to her; it was a skill honed from years of surviving predators in group homes.
She stepped smoothly inside the arc of the swing, dodging the steel.
Before the man could recover his balance, Cassia drove the heel of her hand viciously upward, striking the underside of his chin with concussive force.
As his head snapped back, she pivoted, burying her knee directly into his groin.
The man dropped like a stone, gagging on the pavement.
The second man, wielding the switchblade, charged her with a shout.
Cassia caught his wrist with her left hand, applying a flawless, brutal joint lock she knew from her anatomical studies, and simultaneously drove her right elbow directly into the bridge of his nose.
The bone shattered with a sickening crunch, and the knife clattered to the street as the man collapsed, clutching his ruined face.
Before the third man could even process that the orphan doctor had just dismantled his crew in under five seconds, two figures emerged from the shadows of the alleyway behind him.
Marcus and Nico—Dante’s men, who had been discreetly maintaining the perimeter—stepped into the light. Marcus didn't even draw his weapon; he grabbed the third thug by the back of the collar and slammed his head cleanly against the brick wall. The man slumped to the ground, unconscious.
The street fell dead silent, save for the groaning of the men on the pavement.
Cassia stood amidst the wreckage. She calmly adjusted the lapel of her coat, ensuring there was no blood on the fabric, and let out another, deeper sigh. Her first thought wasn't fear, or adrenaline, or shock. It was pure, unadulterated exasperation.
"Dante is going to be insufferable about this," Cassia muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Marcus, stepping over the unconscious thug, couldn't help the massive grin that broke across his face.
Hearing the exasperation in her voice, watching her fix her coat after breaking a man's nose, he finally understood firsthand what Zoran and the rest of the family had meant.
There was just something about the way she talked, the way she carried herself, that made everything feel lighter and funnier than it had any right to be.
Marcus and Nico exchanged a knowing look, both clearly seeing why the Don was obsessed with her.
Cassia looked at the two enforcers, her pale blue eyes narrowing in irritation. "Listen to me. Maybe we just don't need to mention any of this to Dante. It was just another ordinary day. Two guys tripped on the pavement. Nothing worth reporting, right?"
"Dr. Thorn," Nico objected immediately, shaking his head. "We have no choice but to tell him. It’s protocol. If we hide an ambush from the Boss, he will bury us under the estate."
Cassia scowled. She looked at Marcus, somewhat resigned. "Have you already told him?"
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. "Yes, ma'am. I hit the panic button on the comms the moment the sedan pulled up. I didn't realize you were going to handle the threat before we could even cross the street."
Almost on cue, the high-pitched screech of tires echoed down the block.
A massive black SUV tore around the corner, mounting the curb and slamming into park before the vehicle had even fully stopped. The doors flew open, and Dante sprinted toward them.
He looked terrified. His eyes were wide, his chest heaving, his gaze rapidly scanning the groaning bodies on the ground before snapping to Cassia. He was searching for blood, for a wound, for any sign that the nightmare had repeated itself.
"Cassia!" Dante shouted, closing the distance between them in three long strides.
"Breathe Dante," Cassia commanded immediately, holding up a hand to stop his frantic visual inspection. "I am fine. Everything is fine. Nobody touched me."
Dante didn't listen to the logic. He reached out and pulled her violently into his arms, crushing her against his chest. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"You cannot keep living on your own anymore," Dante choked out, his voice thick with adrenaline and terror, his face buried in her hair. "You are packing your things. You are moving somewhere safer. Tonight."
Cassia rolled her eyes, her cheek pressed against his racing heart. Even wrapped in the embrace of the mob boss, her pragmatism remained intact.
"Are you insane?" Cassia asked, exasperated, her voice muffled slightly by his coat. "Do you genuinely expect me to commute from your estate in the countryside to the trauma ward in the city every single day? It would take an hour each way. That makes no practical sense."
Dante pulled back just enough to look at her, struggling to respond. He was visibly shaken, his pale green eyes dark with fear, unable to process her logistical complaints in the face of an assassination attempt.
Cassia’s expression softened. She reached up, placing her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look directly into her calm, steady eyes.
"Dante," Cassia repeated, her voice dropping into a gentle, grounding rhythm. "You need to breathe. I am fine. I can take care of myself. If anything, my spatial awareness and self-defense skills are considerably better than your own."
Despite the terror still coursing through his veins, a fractured, breathless sound that was half-laugh, half-sob escaped Dante’s lips.
He didn't argue the point. He wrapped his arms around her again, holding onto her as tightly as he possibly could. He was overwhelmed by a tangled, chaotic mix of relief, fear, and happiness, all crashing over him at once. He was unable to fully separate one feeling from another, so he didn't try.
Dante just stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by his men and his defeated enemies, and held her close, thanking every god he didn't believe in that the lethal doctor was safe in his arms.