Chapter 14 Evi
EVI
It’s never not going to be daunting, watching Sandro step into the foyer, dripping sweat, blood splattered across his shirt and hands, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead. He looks every inch a soldier, and something about that sight fills me with equal parts dread and… fascination.
Because it’s not just gore. It’s proof of how hard he fights, how determined he is to win, no matter the cost. Sandro is a man in full, carved from steel and fire, ready to pit himself against the entire world if that’s what it takes.
And that stirs something in me. Something fierce.
Something proud. He’s a warrior, like my brothers, but unlike them, he’s fighting not to earn a name or climb the ranks but to defend his family.
During one of our late nights waiting for the men to return home this week, Anika told me everything.
I’d never heard the reason behind their need for an alliance with my family—the story of how the Tanakas formed an alliance with the Chiaroscuros only to betray them.
How it cost Sandro and his brothers almost everything.
But now I know. Their father is gone, their empire fractured, and Sandro’s loyalty to his brothers is the blinding force that drives him.
This mess of sweat and crimson—means more than territory. It means devotion.
And I want to be worthy of that. Even if I can’t give him children, even if my body has already failed in ways he doesn’t yet know, I can be supportive. I can prove I’m a good wife in other ways. I want to show him the same kind of dedication and loyalty that he gives his family.
But when I finally reach him, and my fingers brush his chest, coming away slick with blood, all my thoughts scatter.
“Sandro…” I whisper, horrified to realize it’s too wet, too warm to be anyone’s blood but his own. “You’re hurt.”
He dismisses it with a grunt, as though my worry is unnecessary. “It’s nothing.”
Nothing? Now that I look more closely at the dark fabric, his shirt is soaked through with it. Instinct roars to life inside me, deeper than reason, sharper than fear as my pulse quickens, and adrenaline floods my veins. I need to help him, to take care of him.
“Let me see it,” I say firmly.
His eyes—dark and unreadable—find mine. He looks almost… surprised, like he expected me to shrink back from the blood, not move closer. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll live.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t need help.” My voice quavers, but I plant my feet, refusing to give an inch. “Please. At least let me clean it.”
For a long moment, it’s a battle of wills. His silence stretches, making my pulse flutter anxiously.
Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he nods once. “Fine.”
I don’t waste another second. “Upstairs,” I say, already moving, glancing back to make sure he follows.
He does, though he’s slow, his gait stiff, so different from the graceful way he usually prowls the halls.
I don’t let myself think too hard about how badly he might be hurt.
If I dwell on it, panic will choke me. Better to focus on what I can do.
As I round the corner, I catch the sound of his brothers calling after him, asking if everything’s alright.
I barely catch Sandro’s gruff reply as he waves them off to keep pace behind me.
Despite the considerable amount of blood loss, he still seems steady on his feet by the time we reach our suite, so I shut the door firmly behind us and motion toward the bathroom.
“Sit,” I tell him, pointing to the edge of the counter. “I need light.”
His brows lift, as if he’s surprised that I could somehow have grown bolder in the last five minutes. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he shrugs out of his ruined shirt, and my breath catches as his torso comes into view.
God, the sight of him is never going to get old.
He’s all muscle and masculine strength, his body a map of destruction and battles long past, hidden beneath the ink.
And across his left pec is a gash at least six inches long, deep enough that blood still seeps sluggishly from it to ooze down his chest and washboard abs.
My stomach flips. “This needs stitches.”
“I’m fine,” he says too casually.
“You’re not fine. You’ll get an infection if you don’t take care of this.” My voice sharpens with urgency. “I’m calling a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“Well, unless you’d rather I stitch you up, that’s your only option.”
I threw the suggestion out there more as a joke to make a doctor sound like the right choice, but something flickers in Sandro’s eyes—surprise again, maybe even amusement.
“You?”
I shouldn’t push my luck, but something about the skepticism in his voice brings out my stubborn side. And before I can think better of it, my chin tips up. “You don’t think I know how?”
For a second, he just stares at me, like he’s trying to read the truth in my eyes. Then he leans back, bracing his palms against the counter, his lips quirking faintly. “If it means that much to you, Sunshine, then have at it.”
Relief crashes over me, swiftly followed by nerves.
“Right,” I say, turning to face the cabinets as I scramble to recall where I put the small pack of medical supplies I brought from home.
Thank goodness my parents insisted on lessons in practical skills—sewing, cooking, first aid.
They said a good mafia wife should know how to keep a house running and a husband alive.
I never thought I’d use the medical training. But here I am.
My hands tremble as I scrub them clean as best I can, then dig through the first aid kit and set each item—thread, needle, antiseptic—onto the counter.
I don’t know what I was thinking, offering up my services like I’m some kind of professional.
I’ve definitely never done anything like this, even if I’m capable in theory.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, I straighten and try to force my fingers not to shake while I prepare the suture needle.
Sandro watches me struggle, his expression unreadable, though a faint glint of curiosity brightens his hematite eyes. “How many men have you stitched up before?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I swallow hard. “None.”
“None?” He raises a brow, his lips twitching.
Dropping my hands, I release a shaky breath and practically implore him, “Now would you rather I call a doctor? I’m sure they would do a better job. They’d at least have anesthetic.”
He huffs a laugh, low and amused. “I don’t need anesthetic.”
Of course he doesn’t.
“You’ve got this.”
The vote of confidence is surprisingly touching—even if it does little to bolster my confidence.
And for several agonizing seconds, we stare at each other in a silent game of chicken, neither willing to back down.
But I’m not going to win this battle, and I know it.
And in the meantime, Sandro will only lose more blood the longer I hold out, hoping he’ll change his mind.
“Fine,” I mutter. “don’t move.”
He doesn’t, his eyes following me as I step between his knees to get close enough to clean his wound. A soft hiss rushing between his teeth is the only reaction I get as I wipe the oozing cut with antiseptic-soaked gauze. I cringe at the thought that I’m causing him unnecessary pain.
“Sorry,” I murmur, my eyes flicking up to search his face.
“It’s fine,” he assures me, his expression stoic. “Just didn’t expect it to be so cold.”
Cold? Really? Of all the things he could complain about right now. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I finish cleaning the cut and take a fresh piece of gauze to dab up the remaining blood surrounding the split edges of his skin.
Then I poise the needle over his chest. My heart hammers, sweat prickling my neck. “Ready?” I whisper.
“You’ll do fine,” he says, utterly calm.
The fact that he’s the one reassuring me in this moment almost makes me want to laugh—or cry.
I’m not entirely sure, but the pressure in my chest is enough to bring tears to my eyes.
I need to get ahold of myself if I’m going to do this right.
Closing my eyes, I visualize the suture pads I’ve practiced on countless times, recalling the pressure it took to penetrate the various layers, the feel of them giving beneath my hand, the curve of the needle as I brought the pieces together.
Taking a last fortifying breath, I brace my left palm on his solid chest, holding the torn flesh steady, and guide the needle to the corner of the wound.
The first puncture makes my stomach twist, but I swallow down the nausea and force myself to keep going.
In, out, loop, knot, cut. In, out, loop, knot, cut.
And as the rhythm sets in, my hands begin to steady. My breath evens, my mind focusing.
Shockingly, Sandro doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even tense.
His body might as well be carved from stone, his hands lightly gripping the edge of the counter, his abs relaxed but still pronounced beneath his tattooed flesh.
He’s probably quite used to needles, now that I think about it.
But I imagine a tattoo needle would be far less painful than having an amateur stitching up already inflamed skin.
Our thighs are close enough to brush as I shift, and I try to ignore the zing of sensation that makes my pulse spike when they do.
I can feel his dark eyes fixed on me, as though daring me to falter.
But I don’t. I keep going, stitch by stitch, sparing only a moment to sneak a glance up at his chiseled face.
And when I do, my breath catches.
Our eyes meet, and the air between us crackles, suddenly charged, electric with the unspoken intensity of his gaze. It makes my task feel astonishingly… intimate. And my heart begins to race.
Swallowing my sudden nerves, I force my eyes back to the task at hand.
And I don’t dare look up again until the wound is closed, neat and clean.
By the end, my chest is light, filled with something close to exhilaration. I tie off the suture, snip it carefully, then press gauze over the site. “There,” I murmur, suddenly shy.
Sandro looks down at my work, then back at me. “Nicely done,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”
The words send a flutter through my chest. His gratitude feels rare. Precious.
Then he pushes off the counter, rolling his shoulders as he steps around me and crosses to the shower without so much as glance back at me.
I hear the water turn on, hot steam billowing out almost instantly, and a pang of disappointment stirs in my chest as I get the distinct feeling that I’m being dismissed.
Willing away the emotions, I busy myself cleaning and tidying the supplies before putting them away.
Then his voice rumbles low across the room. “Evi.”
I look up, and our eyes meet in the bathroom mirror. My cheeks warm instantly at the sight of his glorious body on full display, every thickly corded muscle making the veins lift beneath his golden skin.
His are darker now, the heat unmistakable. “You want to join me?”
My breath stutters, my pulse thundering against my ribs. I set down the scissors with fingers that suddenly feel unsteady once again. Do I? God, yes. I nod, unable to find words.
His mouth curves faintly, a wolf’s smile, and he tips his head, silently inviting me to follow as he moves beneath the spray. My hands shake as I peel off my dress, dropping it onto the tile. My skin prickles with nervous energy, every movement amplified by the awareness that he’s watching.
When I finally step into the steam, he’s already there, water cascading down the lines of his body. Somehow, his bandaged wound only makes him look more powerful—like a warrior who survived the fire and came out more impervious than before.
And when his eyes slide down my body, slow and deliberate, I see it.
He’s already hard.
Heat surges through me, melting away the last of my hesitation. I step closer, water plastering my hair to my shoulders as I lift my chin.
His hand cups my jaw, his thumb brushing over the pad of my lower lip, and the hunger in his gaze makes my knees weak.
The world narrows to the sound of water, the heat of his body, the knowledge that this man—this brutal, scarred, relentless man—wants me.
And as he leans in, slowly, purposefully, stealing the oxygen between us, I want him just as desperately.