11. Leander
Leander
It’s four in the afternoon when I step out of the hospital’s side exit near the loading dock.
I’ve been on my feet for nine hours, finishing a four-hour hip reconstruction and three emergency chart reviews.
My shoulders are tight, my neck aches, and all I want is a hot shower and ten quiet minutes with Kara before the hospital board starts calling again.
I walk toward my sedan parked in the staff lot.
Before I reach my door, a dark SUV idling near the dumpsters rolls forward, cutting across two empty spaces, and stops in front of my bumper.
The rear passenger door opens.
Vincenzo steps out. Behind him, two men step out of the driver and front passenger doors. I recognize both of them from the estate: Cosimo’s younger enforcers, Marko and Paul.
I’m too tired for this nonsense this afternoon.
I stop, my car keys resting in my palm, my coat over my arm.
"You're a hard man to catch, Leander," Vincenzo walks toward me. His hands are buried in his trouser pockets, his jaw set, his eyes carrying a feverish, unblinking glare.
"I have a job, Vincenzo," I reply, keeping my voice neutral. "What do you want?"
"I want you to stop playing hero," Vincenzo stops three feet away. "You made a scene at the gala. You embarrassed Don Roberto, you embarrassed Antonio Rossi, and you put your hands on me."
"You put your hands on her first," I reply calmly.
Vincenzo lets out a short laugh that carries no humor at all. He steps an inch closer, his chest nearly brushing mine, his breath smelling faintly of stale tobacco and espresso.
"She is my betrothed," Vincenzo says, his voice dropping into a low, raspy whisper. "Her father signed the contract. My father signed the contract. She belongs to the Moretti family, Leander. She belongs to me."
Looking at him now, I came to the realization that he doesn’t really care about the shipping docks or the alliance. He cares that something he considers his was taken by the bastard brother he's spent years looking down on.
"Kara isn't yours." I say slowly, maybe it’ll help him with comprehension.
"She was mine the second Antonio Rossi shook my father's hand!" Vincenzo snaps, his temper flaring instantly. He points a finger straight at my chest. "You think because you put on a doctor's coat that you're better than me? You think you can just step into my inheritance and take what's mine?"
"I don't want your inheritance," I tell him, my posture still. "I never have. Take the docks, take the money, take the title. But leave Kara out of it."
"I'm not leaving her out of anything!" Vincenzo yells, his face flushing red. "I'm going to marry her. I'm going to bring her to the estate, and every time you look at her, you'll remember who owns her."
Marko and Paul step up on either side of Vincenzo, their hands resting near their belts.
I look past Vincenzo's shoulder at the two goons, then bring my gaze back to my brother.
"She won’t marry you, Vincenzo. And if you come near my hospital or her apartment again, we're going to have a problem that Roberto can't fix for you."
Vincenzo stares at me, his jaw twitching and an ugly, bitter grin spreading across his face.
"Is that a threat, Dr. Sartori?" he asks.
"It's a fact," I reply.
"You're outnumbered, Leander," Vincenzo croons, glancing at the two men beside him.
"Try it and see how much that helps you," I reply with a shrug.
For a second, I think he's going to order Marko and Paul to move right there under the parking lot lights. But Vincenzo takes a slow, deep breath, smoothing down the front of his vest with both hands, forcing his composure back into place.
"Not here," Vincenzo murmurs, stepping back toward his SUV. "Not where the cameras can see. But you remember this conversation, Leander. Every step you take with her is a step on my property."
He gets into the back seat, and Marko pulls the door shut. The SUV reverses out of the space, turns sharply, and speeds out toward the main street.
I stand alone in the staff lot for half a minute, my hands clenched into loose fists, watching the exhaust fade into the sky.
He isn't going to let this go. He's too insecure, too arrogant, and too obsessed with proving himself to Roberto.
I unlock my car, toss my coat onto the passenger seat, and get behind the wheel.
Two hours later, I finish my evening paperwork at the clinic near the docks, a secondary emergency site Metro General manages for riverfront workers.
It’s eight in the evening when I lock the back door of the clinic and step into the narrow, dimly lit alleyway behind the building where my car is parked.
The streetlamp above the alley is broken, flickering weakly against the wet brick walls.
I pull my keys from my pocket.
Before I reach my door, two shadows step out from the alley mouth behind me. Rapid footsteps crunch against the gravel to my left.
I turn around just in time.
Marko comes charging out of the shadows, swinging a heavy iron tire bar straight for my head.
I duck underneath the swing, the iron bar whistling an inch over my skull, and drive my shoulder straight into Marko's ribs.
He lets out a grunting gasp as we hit the brick wall hard.
I catch his wrist with my left hand, twisting the joint backward until the tire iron clatters onto the pavement. Before he can recover, I drive two hard, fast strikes with my right fist straight into his floating ribs, feeling the cartilage yield under my knuckles.
He groans, sagging against the wall.
A boot catches me in the side of my chest from behind.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, sending me stumbling sideways into a stack of wooden pallets. I hit the ground hard, scraping my palm against the rough concrete, the sharp sting of fresh blood blooming across my knuckles.
Fuck! I should’ve guessed he wouldn’t send just one person.
Paul steps over the broken pallets, a knuckle set glinting on his right hand in the faint light.
"Don't take it personal, Doc," Paul grunts, raising his arm to strike. "Vincenzo just wants to make sure you're too sore to stand tomorrow morning."
He swings downward.
I roll sharply to the left over the damp gravel. His fist slams into the wooden pallet where my head was a second ago, shattering the pine slats with a loud CRACK.
Before he can pull his hand free, I sweep my leg out, catching him behind the ankle.
Paul crashes heavily onto his back, his head hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
I scramble up, ignoring the sharp ache in my ribs, and drop my knee straight into his sternum, pinning him flat.
I grab him by the collar of his jacket with both hands and slam his head back against the asphalt once, hard enough to knock his vision sideways.
His eyes roll back, his arms going limp at his sides.
Behind me, Marko is back on his feet, holding his ribs with one hand, reaching into his coat with the other for a knife.
I stand up, turning to face him. My mouth tastes like iron where my inner cheek caught my teeth during the fall, and my left knuckles are torn open, dripping blood onto my trousers.
I step toward Marko, my eyes fixed on his face.
Marko looks at Paul lying unconscious on the ground, looks at the fresh blood on my knuckles, and reads the violence in my expression. He stops two feet away, his hand freezing inside his coat, his face draining of color.
"Get him out of here." I grunt, my voice raspy and devoid of warmth. "And tell Vincenzo that if he sends you again, neither of you is walking back to the SUV."
Marko doesn't argue. He drops his hand from his coat, grabs Paul under the arms, and drags him toward the alley exit, scrambling into the idling SUV waiting at the curb.
The vehicle speeds off into the night, the tires screeching against the wet pavement.
I stand alone in the dark alleyway for two minutes, leaning my head back against the cool brick wall, taking slow, ragged breaths.
My ribs burn with every intake of air. My left hand is throbbing, skin torn across three knuckles, blood trickling down my wrist onto my cuff. My jaw aches where Paul's boot grazed my face.
Bastards.
I pull my handkerchief from my pocket, wrapping it tightly around my left hand to stop the bleeding, then pick up my dropped keys from the gravel. I get into my car, start the engine, and pull out into the street, heading straight toward Kara's brownstone.
When I reach her building twenty minutes later, the street parking is empty.
I walk up the three flights of carpeted stairs slowly, keeping my left hand tucked inside my coat pocket, using my right hand to pull her spare key from my wallet.
My reflection in the hallway mirror catches my eye as I approach her door: dark hair messy, a split lip dripping faintly, a dark bruise already forming along my left cheekbone, and fresh blood on my white shirt collar.
I turn the lock quietly, push the door open, and step inside.
The apartment is warm, smelling faintly of jasmine and citrus. The small table lamp near the sofa is on, casting a low, golden glow across the living room floor.
Kara is sitting at her small dining table, wearing a sweater with her hair loose around her shoulders. Her laptop is open in front of her, a legal binder spread out beside her teacup.
She looks up when the door clicks shut.
The second her eyes take in my face, her posture goes rigid. She sets her pen down on the table, stands up, and walks straight toward me.
"Leander," her voice is smooth and devoid of panic, though her eyes narrow sharply as she scans my face. "What happened?"
"I had a disagreement in the alley behind the dock clinic," I take off my dark coat with my good hand and tossing it over the entry chair.
Kara steps up right in front of me. She reaches out, her warm, gentle fingers touching the side of my chin, tilting my face slightly toward the light so she can inspect the cut on my cheekbone.
"Vincenzo?" she asks.
"Marko and Paul," I reply, leaning into her hand despite the sting. "Vincenzo sent them to leave a message."
Kara's jaw tightens slightly, a cold, dangerous flicker passing through her eyes. "Did he think two enforcers would make you walk away?"
"He thinks a lot of stupid things," I reply, letting out a short breath that aches against my ribs.
Kara doesn't waste time asking more questions. She catches my right elbow, guiding me toward the bathroom.
"Sit," she instructs, gesturing to the edge of the bathtub.
I sit down on the porcelain edge, resting my forearms on my knees, watching her move around the small room with practiced efficiency. She pulls the first aid kit from the cabinet under the sink, grabs a clean washcloth, and runs it under warm water.
She kneels down between my legs, setting the kit on the floor beside her.
"Hold still," she murmurs softly, bringing the damp cloth up to my face.
She dabbed gently at the split on my lower lip, wiping away the dried blood. Her touch is gentle, a stark contrast to the violence I was dealing with forty minutes ago in the alley.
I watch her profile in the low light. Her brow is slightly furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line, her entire focus centered on cleaning my face.
"You're bleeding on your collar," she notes quietly, moving the cloth down to my jawline.
"It'll wash out," I reply, my voice vibrating in the small bathroom.
"Did you break anything?" she asks, her eyes flicking up to meet mine.
"Ribs are bruised. Knuckles are scraped. Nothing broken."
Kara sets the washcloth aside, reaches into the first aid kit, and pulls out a bottle of antiseptic solution and a roll of gauze. She reaches for my left hand, which is still wrapped in my blood-soaked handkerchief.
She unties the cloth carefully, peeling the cotton away from my skin.
She sees the torn knuckles—raw, bleeding, and bruised from hitting Marko's jaw and the concrete wall.
She’s taking all of this better than I expected.
She pours a small amount of antiseptic onto a cotton pad and presses it firmly against the open skin.
The sting is sharp, making my fingers twitch slightly against her palm, but I don't pull back.
"Vincenzo came to the staff lot earlier today," I tell her quietly as she works. "He told me you belong to him because of the contract."
Kara's hands pause for half a second before she continues wrapping the sterile tape around my middle knuckle.
"He's delusional," she responds, her tone cold and analytical. "Antonio signed that paper to save his shipping permits. Vincenzo thinks a signature gives him authority over my life."
"He's jealous, Kara," I tell her, looking down at her hands wrapped around mine. "He's jealous that Roberto listens to me, and he's furious that you chose me over him."
Kara finishes securing the tape, smoothing the edge down against my skin but doesn't let go of my hand. She rests her palm over my wrapped knuckles, looking straight up into my dark eyes.
"I chose you because you're the only man in this city who treats me like a partner instead of a bargaining chip," she says, her voice low, quiet, and absolutely firm.
Partner. I like the sound of that.
"He's going to escalate," I warn her. "Vincenzo doesn't know how to lose gracefully. He's going to use the capos, he's going to talk to Roberto, and he's going to try to force your father's hand."
"Let him try," Kara answers. "I'm already drafting a legal filing regarding my father's commercial transit permits. If Antonio tries to enforce that betrothal contract, I will leak three years of harbor clearance violations to the waterfront commission. It will freeze his assets for six months."
That’s my woman.
"You really are dangerous, Rossi," I drawl.
"I told you," she replies, a faint smile touching her lips as she stands up from the floor. "I know where the vulnerabilities are."
She reaches down, catching my hands, and helps me stand up from the tub.
I step close to her, wrapping my good arm around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest despite the dull ache in my ribs. I rest my forehead against hers, taking a slow, deep breath, letting the clean scent of her skin wash away the lingering smell of damp gravel and blood from the alley.
"Are you okay?" she whispers, her hands sliding up to rest on my shoulders.
"I am now," I mutter softly.
I lower my mouth, pressing my lips against hers—softly at first, minding my split lip, until she leans into the touch, her fingers tangling into the damp dark hair at the back of my neck. The kiss is slow and grounding, cutting through the chaos and threats waiting for us outside her front door.
When I pull back half an inch, my eyes stay locked onto hers.
I hold her close in the quiet warmth of her apartment, knowing that the storm outside is growing larger by the hour. But standing here with Kara Rossi in my arms, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, I don't feel like a man running from his past anymore.
I feel like a man ready to burn down whatever stands in our way.