16. Kara
Kara
The beep of a cardiac monitor is the first thing that registers in my mind.
I take a slow, experimental breath. A dull, tight ache pulls sharply across my left ribcage.
Vicenzo, that bastard!
I open my eyes.
The ambient lights in the bay are dimmed to a warm, low glow. The digital display above my head reads my oxygen saturation at ninety-eight percent and my heart rate at a steady sixty-four beats per minute.
Hospital.
Sitting in the leather armchair right beside my gurney, holding my right hand in both of his, is Leander.
He's wearing a navy scrub top with a coat thrown over his shoulders. His hair is damp at the temples, and he smells faintly of surgical locker-room soap.
I shift my fingers inside his grip.
Leander's head snaps up instantly. His eyes find mine. Relief washes over his face so fast it almost looks like pain.
"Kara," he whispers softly. His raspy voice is low, rough around the edges, like he hasn't used it in hours.
"Hey," I say, my throat dry.
He reaches for the plastic cup of water sitting on the bedside tray, setting the straw against my lips before I can even ask. I take three small, slow sips, letting the cool liquid soothe my throat before I lean my head back against the pillow.
I scan his face. My gaze dropping to his body, to his left sleeve, where the fabric of his coat is pulled up slightly, revealing a fresh sterile bandage wrapped around his forearm.
"You look cleaner than when you picked me up off the gravel," I observe, my voice quiet in the dim room.
A tiny smile touches the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remain dark. "I showered in the surgical locker room. Didn't think you'd appreciate me sitting in your room smelling like a street fight."
"What time is it?"
"Four-fifteen in the morning," Leander replies, his thumb gently tracing the back of my knuckles. "You've been under for about three hours."
I tilt my head slightly, looking at the double doors of the trauma bay.
Quiet corridor. No police sirens. No hospital security disturbance reports.
"Tell me what happened, Leander," I demand softly.
"Julian cleaned the wound," Leander begins, his tone calm. "He pulled out six small fragments of glass from your side, placed twelve plastic sutures along your sixth rib, and wrapped the chest wall tightly. You're going to have a thin scar, but there's no lung involvement or internal bleeding."
"What happened after that?” I ask him softly, holding his gaze.
Leander looks down at our joined hands. The low light of the monitor reflects off his broad shoulders, casting a long shadow across the white bedsheet.
"I drove to the Moretti estate," he says, his raspy voice dropping an octave.
The estate, my mind registers instantly. Not his condo. Not his office.
"Who was there?" I ask.
"Vincenzo's enforcers," Leander says simply. "Twelve men in the subterranean holding lounge. Leo, Marco, and ten others."
"And?"
"They aren't coming back to Fourth Avenue," Leander tells me. His dark eyes look up, meeting mine without a fraction of hesitation or doubt.
"And Vincenzo?" I ask.
"He was in his office," Leander says. His fingers tighten slightly around my hand, his grip solid and unyielding. "I broke his right wrist, I broke his nose, and I broke three of his ribs."
"Did you leave him breathing?"
"He's alive," Leander replies flatly. "He'll live. But he won't walk without a cane until spring, and he will never raise a hand or send a man to your street again."
I stare at his dark profile in the quiet room.
Oh, Leander.
"Leander," I say softly.
"I told you," he starts, his voice carrying a quiet, lethal intensity that makes the air in the trauma bay feel still.
"I'm not sitting by and letting anyone who hurt you live to see the next day as if nothing happened.
I don't care if he carries Roberto's name, and I don't care about the family contracts.
If anyone touches you, I will destroy them. "
He stops talking. He looks down at my pale hand in his, and for the first time since I woke up, I see it.
His right hand is trembling.
It's a subtle, uncontrollable tremor running through his knuckles and wrist—the aftermath of pure, suffocating panic that held him while he carried me down the alleyway.
I look at his face. Beneath the cold, dangerous mask of the surgeon who just tore through twelve men at the estate, I see a raw, suffocating guilt that goes far deeper than tonight, the lingering shadow of the boy who lost his mother and spent fifteen years trying to outrun the pain.
He thinks he failed. He thinks because he was late to my brownstone, he let history repeat itself. He thinks every time someone he cares about bleeds, it's his fault for not being fast enough.
"Leander," I whisper, reaching up with my free left hand, resting my palm against the rough stubble of his jawline.
He freezes at my touch.
"Look at me," I command softly.
He turns his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. The tension in his jaw is so tight I can hear the faint click of his teeth.
"You didn't fail me," I tell him, my voice smooth, level, and absolute.
"I was late, Kara," he mumbles, his raspy voice cracking slightly on my name. "I was three blocks away when Gino put his boot into your side. If I'd been two minutes faster—"
"If you hadn't turned onto my street when you did, Gino and those two men would have taken me.” I interrupt.
He doesn't answer. He just stares at me, his chest heaving, his hand still shaking against my palm.
"I didn't get taken, Leander," I reiterate, my hazel eyes holding his without flinching. "I'm right here. I'm breathing, my lungs are clear, and I'm sitting in here with the best surgeon in this city watching over me."
Leander lets out a long, ragged exhale through his nose.
He leans forward, dropping his forehead against the edge of my mattress, right beside my hip. His broad shoulders shudder once as the final, lingering thread of terror leaves his body. His large, warm hand wraps around mine, squeezing so tight I can feel his pulse thumping heavily against my skin.
I shift my body slightly on the bed, ignoring the dull ache in my left side, and reach down to tangle my fingers into the dark, damp hair at the back of his neck.
"Come here," I say softly.
Leander stands up slowly from the chair. He sits carefully on the edge of the narrow gurney, mindful of my left side, and wraps his arms around me.
I lean my head into the crook of his neck, burying my face against his warm skin. He pulls me flush against his chest, his left hand coming up to hold the back of my head, his grip possessive, protective, and grounding.
"I've got you," he mutters into my hair, his raspy voice steadying with every breath he takes.
"I know," I whisper against his neck. "I know you do."
We stay locked together in the quiet room for five long minutes. The cardiac monitor above the bed continue to beep in a slow, steady sixty-four beats per minute, the sound blending with the quiet rhythm of our breathing.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes search my face. His thumb comes up, gently wiping a loose strand of dark hair away from my forehead, his touch as precise and delicate as a surgical instrument.
"Does your side hurt?" he asks softly.
"It aches," I admit, offering a faint, subtle smile. "But I've had worse headaches from reading state compliance filings."
Leander lets out a quiet, genuine breath that is half a laugh, his dark eyes softening as he looks down at me. "You're absurd, Rossi."
Finally, a smile.
"I'm practical, Dr. Sartori," I correct smoothly, leaning up an inch to press a soft, lingering kiss against his lips.
He responds instantly, his mouth meeting mine in a deep, grounding kiss that tastes of warm water and cold determination. There's no panic left in him now, no violent storm, no guilt.
When he pulls back, his hand rests firmly against my waist, keeping me close.
"What's our next move?" Leander asks quietly.
I lean my head back against the white pillow, my mind turning back on, cold, sharp, and hyper-analytical as I calculate the remaining pieces on the board.
"Tomorrow morning, I hit 'send' on the harbor non-compliance audit," I tell him, my hazel eyes flashing with quiet, unshakeable resilience.
"Antonio's shipping permits get frozen for ninety days, Don Roberto loses his distribution kickbacks, and Vincenzo will be too busy managing his broken jaw and federal inquiries to look at Fourth Avenue. "
Leander stares at me for two long seconds. A real, quiet tilt touches the corner of his lips.
"You really are dangerous, Kara," he murmurs softly.
"I told you," I say, reaching up to wrap my fingers around his wrapped wrist. "We're partners. We do this together."
"Together," Leander agrees softly.
He leans down, pressing his lips gently against my temple, his arm remaining wrapped around my shoulders as I close my eyes in the quiet warmth of the room.
For the first time since I stepped out of my father's house two years ago, the dark undercurrents of this city don't feel like a threat. Sitting in the quiet room with Leander Sartori holding my hand, I know that whatever comes next, we are ready for it.