CHAPTER THIRTEEN #3
Sandro sat on the edge of the stainless steel examination table, his ruined shirt discarded, his broad chest bare. The estate’s private physician, an elderly man with steady hands, was carefully threading a curved needle through Sandro’s skin, stitching the entry and exit wounds on his side.
But Sandro was focused on the hurricane pacing back and forth across the white tiles.
Zina was furious. She was a caged tiger, her combat boots clicking a rapid, aggressive rhythm against the floor. Her dark eyes were blazing with a volatile mixture of pure rage, terror, and relief.
"I told you!" Zina shouted, throwing her hands into the air as she turned on her heel to pace back the other way.
"I explicitly told you that I would come with you!
I told you I would have your back! But no, the great Don of Milan had to drop to his knees and deliver a Shakespearean monologue about how I would distract him! "
Sandro winced slightly as the needle pulled tight, but he kept his mouth shut. He watched her with a dopey, incredibly fond smile playing at the corners of his lips. He couldn't help it. Even when she was tearing him to shreds, she was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen.
"You promised me!" Zina continued, stopping to point a fiercely accusing finger directly at his face.
The doctor shrank back slightly, terrified to be caught in the crossfire.
"You looked me in the eye and you promised me that you were not going to get hurt!
And look at what you did! You get shot on a dock in the rain!
So what is the protocol here, Sandro? I am supposed to stay tucked away, knitting a sweater, while you go out and get bullet holes put in you? Is that how this relationship works?"
"Amore—" Sandro tried gently.
"Do not 'amore' me!" Zina snapped, resuming her furious pacing.
"If I had been there, that mercenary would have been dead before he even raised his weapon.
I would have cleared your left flank in ten seconds.
But no, I was sitting in the library reading a book about Roman architecture while you were bleeding on a wooden pallet! It is unacceptable!"
The elderly doctor hastily tied off the final suture, snipped the thread, and slapped a sterile bandage over the wound.
"You are finished, Don Moretti," the doctor mumbled quickly, grabbing his surgical tray.
He practically sprinted out of the medical suite, desperate to escape the wrath of the woman pacing the floor.
The door clicked shut, leaving them alone.
Zina wasn't even close to finished. She spun around, taking a deep breath to launch into a fresh barrage of accusations regarding his complete and utter inability to follow his own promises.
"And another thing," Zina fumed, marching toward the examination table. "If you think for one second that the next time you leave this estate—"
She didn't get to finish the sentence.
As she marched within arm's reach, Sandro reached out with his uninjured arm.
He caught her by the waist and pulled her firmly forward, dragging her directly between his parted knees.
Before Zina could even register the movement, Sandro leaned forward, tangling his large hand in her dark hair, and crashed his mouth against hers.
Zina gasped against his lips, her hands instinctively coming up to push against his bare chest, fully intending to continue her rant. But the moment she felt the heat of his skin, the steady, powerful thud of his heart, the fight began to bleed out of her.
Sandro kissed her with a slow, devastating thoroughness.
He didn't rush. He simply poured every ounce of his love, his apology, and his gratitude into the connection.
He tasted like rain and adrenaline. He stroked her jawline, his thumb brushing over her cheek, pulling her closer until she was flush against his body.
Slowly, Zina’s tense muscles uncoiled. Her hands, which had been pressing against his chest, slid up to wrap tightly around his neck. She kissed him back, the anger finally dissolving, replaced by the sheer relief that he was alive, that he was here, and that he was holding her.
Sandro finally pulled back, resting his forehead against hers. They were both breathing heavily in the bright, sterile quiet of the medical bay.
"I am sorry I broke my promise," Sandro whispered, his green-grey eyes locked onto hers, burning with sincerity. "And I am sorry I made you worry. But I am not sorry I made you stay behind. I will take a bullet every single day of the week if it means you remain safe."
Zina let out a ragged, defeated sigh, resting her cheek against the curve of his neck, carefully avoiding his injured side. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she dared.
"If you ever do it again," Zina murmured, her voice thick with emotion, "I am going to shoot you in the other side just to make it even."
Sandro chuckled, pressing a soft kiss into her dark hair, his arm wrapping securely around her waist. "Understood, amore. Understood."