Chapter Nineteen #2
When Marco saw his younger brother’s open eyes, he dropped to his knees beside the bed, burying his face in the mattress, his shoulders shaking with silent, overwhelmed gratitude.
Renzo moved to the other side of the bed, his dark eyes shining with tears.
He placed a warm hand over Enzo’s heart, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat beneath the bandages.
"Welcome back, little brother," Renzo breathed, a smile of pure, unadulterated joy breaking across his exhausted features.
Enzo looked at his older brothers, then back at the two women still wiping tears from their faces. "I require... a monument," Enzo croaked, his eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion threatened to pull him under again. "In the courtyard. Bronze. Very tall."
"We will build you a dozen monuments, you arrogant bastard," Marco laughed, his voice thick with tears as he gripped Enzo’s hand.
Roselia and Raisa exchanged a look, rolling their eyes in simultaneous, profound annoyance. He had been awake for three minutes, and he was already insufferable. But as they looked at the pale, smiling face of the youngest Falco, the annoyance was entirely eclipsed by a soaring, bottomless relief.
The family was whole.
***
A few nights later, the distant war against the Balkan network continued to rage, but the Falco estate was a fortress of quiet, impenetrable peace. Enzo had been moved to a comfortable recovery suite, the doctors assuring the family that his youth and sheer stubbornness guaranteed a full recovery.
In the master suite of the east wing, the velvet curtains were drawn tight against the cool night air. The only light in the bedroom came from the roaring fire in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows of gold and amber across the walls.
Roselia stood near the foot of the sprawling, four-poster bed.
She had just stepped out of a hot shower, her skin flushed, wearing only a floor-length robe of dark crimson silk.
She was brushing the tangles from her damp hair, her mind drifting through the chaotic, terrifying events of the past two weeks.
She felt the shift in the air before she heard his footsteps.
Renzo stepped out of his adjoining dressing room. He had discarded his suit, wearing only dark slacks, his chest bare. The firelight caught the defined ridges of his muscles and the scattered, faded scars that told the story of his violent rise to power.
He didn't speak. He simply crossed the room, his eyes fixed on her with a dark, consuming intensity that still, after all this time, made her breath catch in her throat.
Renzo stepped behind her, taking the silver hairbrush from her hand and tossing it onto a nearby armchair.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. He buried his face in the damp curtain of her hair, inhaling the scent of her skin, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of contentment.
"He is asleep," Renzo murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against her neck. "Marco is sitting with him. The perimeter is secure."
"The Bratva took Gashi's port in Albania," Roselia added softly, leaning her head back against his shoulder. "I saw the wire from Sasha. The Butcher is trapped."
"I do not care about the Butcher right now," Renzo whispered.
He turned her around in his arms, his large hands cupping her face.
He looked at her as if she were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
The terror of almost losing his brother had stripped away the final, lingering layers of the Don, leaving only the man who worshipped the woman standing in front of him.
"I look at you," Renzo breathed, his thumbs tracing her cheekbones, "and I marvel at the fact that you are actually mine. After everything I put you through. After my blindness. You stayed. You fought for my family. You bled for us."
"I love you, Lorenzo," Roselia answered, her voice fiercely steady, her hands moving up to rest against his bare chest, feeling the frantic pounding of his heart. "I will always fight for us."
A ragged, beautiful sound escaped Renzo’s lips. He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was slow, deep, and devastatingly tender. It wasn't rushed. It was a worshipful, deliberate claiming of her soul.
He untied the sash of her silk robe, letting the crimson fabric pool silently on the Persian rug at their feet.
The cool air brushed against her skin for only a second before Renzo lifted her effortlessly into his arms, carrying her the short distance to the bed and following her down into the tangled sheets.
His mouth left hers, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the long column of her throat, lingering over her pulse point. Roselia gasped, her back arching into the mattress as his hands—calloused, strong, and impossibly gentle—traced the athletic curve of her hips.
"You are my universe," Renzo vowed against her skin, his breath hot and ragged. He kissed the faint, silver scar on her side where she had taken the bullet for him a year ago, treating the mark with a profound, agonizing reverence.
Roselia tangled her fingers in his dark hair, pulling him back up to meet her lips.
The emotional weight of the past week, the fear, the adrenaline, and the overwhelming relief all poured into the physical connection between them.
It was a slow, heat that built with agonizing precision.
Every touch was deliberate, every sigh swallowed by the man who treated her body like a temple he was privileged to enter.
As they finally came together, the world outside the locked doors vanished.
There were no syndicates, no wars, no rival factions.
There was only the searing, breathtaking friction of skin against skin, the desperate, whispered promises exchanged in the dark, and the consuming devotion of a man who loved his wife with a ferocity that defied reason.
Renzo held her tightly against his chest as the fire burned down to embers, their breathing slowly returning to a synchronized rhythm in the quiet room. He pressed a kiss to her damp forehead, tangling his legs with hers, entirely at peace in the fortress they had built together.