Violet
I don't know what to think of this man. I know he is the head of the Italian Cosa Nostra here in New York, but he isn't at all what I would have expected a ruthless mafia boss to be like.
He's almost playful with me and obviously flirting.
All while, I remind myself, he just dumped his fiancée.
Not his girlfriend, his fiancée. And from what I saw, it didn't seem like he was heartbroken about it.
It was downright cruel. This man is more than ruthless and dangerous; he could not only order me into a shallow grave with a wink of his eye, but I have a gnawing suspicion he could also tear my heart in two should I be foolish enough to not keep my distance.
Besides, how morally wrong it is to develop feelings, sexual feelings, for a patient?
And that's what he is, I force myself to acknowledge, my patient.
Yet, it's hard to resist those piercing eyes, that chiseled face.
The white bandage around his head only emphasizes his sharp features, framing the hawk nose that sits a little crooked in the center of his face.
Black hair pokes out through the white of the gauze, inviting me to run my hand through it.
Satisfied that at least my fingers aren't shaking, I undo the bandage around his upper arm and shoulder, marveling at how wide and well sculpted they are.
There is some ink on him. Normally, I'm not a big tattoo fan, but on him… it fits.
The gauze is stuck to his skin in places, and I apply warm saline solution to loosen it.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Impatiently, Marcello rips the gauze off, making the skin underneath bleed.
"Good job," I mumble, dabbing at the irritated flesh.
"Sometimes you just have to rip the bandage off," he replies. His face is so close that I can feel his soft exhale toying with a few lost strands of my hair. My body is already trembling enough inside that I don't need these additional stimuli, but I can't stop imagining his lips on mine.
His phone rings, and he picks it up, while I busy myself with what I was hired to do.
"Pronto?"
He falls silent for a moment, then shoots off a string of Italian words that sound like machine gun fire and music all at once. God, can this man get any sexier?
When he's finished with his call, I'm done with his shoulder and working my way down to the wound on his hip. Before he can rip the gauze once again, I catch his hand and shake my head at him.
"You're paying me a lot of money to take care of you, so let me take care of you."
"Ah, Chirps, you shouldn't have said that." His words are little more than a rasp.
"Chirps?" I echo, fingers trembling slightly as I loosen the gauze.
"When I was out, I heard you sometimes," he murmurs, his tone rich and smooth as honey, sending a ripple of pleasure down my spine. "You sounded like a little bird… so I started calling you Chirps in my head."
"Oh." Bereft of words, I stare at him. That is the most romantic thing anybody has ever said to me. Remember the fiancée, remember the fiancée, echoes in my head.
"Now if you really want to take care of me…" he trails off, his gaze drifting to where I bunched the blanket to the side to clean the wound by his hip. His obvious erection creates a tent.
"Oh," I repeat, dumbfounded. This is so inappropriate, but I'm unable to tear my eyes away. The tent stimulates my overactive imagination, forming images of the pole's size in my head that have me shuddering with pleasure.
"Uhm, this is completely natural… nothing to be ashamed of… it happens…" I mumble.
"Do I look like I'm ashamed of it?" His voice sounds amused enough that I keep my head down, which has to be flaming red by now.
"This looks good. It's healing just fine…" I keep mumbling like a teenager, applying another self-adhesive bandage to the long gash by his hip.
"Alright, leg next." I shuffle down, feeling his hot gaze on me and refusing to look up. I try to work up outrage that he thinks sexual favors are included in the service he hired me for, but we both know that the sexual tension between us has nothing to do with money.
I don't like the red rims around the healing gunshot wound on his thigh. He was lucky the bullet hit neither artery nor bone, but it's still the slowest healing of his injuries.
"Why did they do this to you?" I can't stop myself from asking as I wipe antibacterial ointment over the red area.
"They want what I have," he answers simply.
From the corner of my eye, I notice he's still intently staring at me.
I can't help but revel in it. Apparently, all it takes to fix my self-esteem is one dangerously hot mafia heir staring at me like I'm his next obsession.
"I'm glad they didn't get it." I pull the blankets over him and straighten.
"Me too." His black pupils dilate, smoldering at me. Ah shit, how's a girl supposed to keep a clear head with a man like him staring at her like that?
"Everything looks good. I'll leave your evening medication by the bedside table. Do you need anything else from me today, Mis—Marcello?"
Please say yes, please say yes, my heart begs, despite my mind screaming Mina's name in warning.
He leans back in bed, his arms folded behind his head, as he regards me still with a hungry expression that makes it hard to breathe.
"Unless you want to climb in here and minister to other parts of me in need of a helping hand…" He drifts off.
Alright, this has gone far enough. I channel what's left of my wits and professionalism. "I didn't know sexual favors were included in our agreement." I'm proud of my unwavering voice, with just the right edge of boundary-setting.
"They're not," he responds, unflapped. "I was just reading the atmosphere between us. My apologies if I misread it." He looks anything but apologetic. Arrogance and self-assuredness bleed from him. Fuck. He's blunt and honest.
A spark of anger grows a little bigger in my stomach. I'm not one of Mina's biggest fans, but what I saw… Yeah, in the name of all dumped women, I need to speak up. "I thought you'd be a little bit more subdued after just breaking up with your fiancée."
He looks at me like I've just mentioned a distant relative who died that he can't quite remember, pissing me off even more.
"Fiancée?" he repeats slowly, like the word itself tastes foreign.
"Mina," I bite out. "You remember—four carats, designer tantrums, crocodile tears?"
Recognition flashes in his eyes, but not guilt. No, this man wouldn't know guilt if it walked up and put a bullet through his skull. Oh, wait, that already happened.
"Mina. Right." He shrugs one powerful shoulder, utterly unbothered. "That was a strategic alliance. And a temporary one."
"Is that what you call sleeping with someone and buying them diamond rings?" I snap.
He leans back, the sheets pooling around his waist, revealing just enough of his abs to remind me how close I am to disaster. A slow smirk tugs at his mouth. "Jealous, Chirps?"
The nickname hits its target—soft, intimate, disarming—and I hate how it works.
I fold my arms. "Not even a little. But I am pissed off on behalf of every woman who's ever been used as a smoke screen."
He studies me, something dark slipping beneath the surface of that charming smile. "Don't confuse Mina with someone innocent. She knew the rules. She liked the game. You, on the other hand…" He trails off, tilting his head. "You'd burn the board to the ground."
"Damn right I would," I hiss.
He chuckles again, low and gravelly. "That's why I hired you. That fire. That backbone."
"You hired me to monitor your vitals and manage your medication, not stroke your ego," I shoot back, even though my traitorous pulse is doing gymnastics under his scrutiny.
He holds my gaze, and suddenly the teasing fades, replaced by something weightier. He leans forward, wincing slightly but refusing to look weak, his voice drops into something softer. "I didn't misread the atmosphere, Violet. I just moved too fast."
I stare at him, thrown. For a man who commands entire territories with a phone call, it's oddly disarming to hear him admit… anything.
"So slow down," I say, more breath than words.
He smiles—less arrogant now, more dangerous. "That's the plan, tesoro."
I back away before I do something incredibly stupid, like kiss him. Or worse—trust him.
"You need rest, not flirting," I say, grabbing the tray from the bedside table.
"And you need to stop looking at me like that," he calls after me as I walk to the door.
"Like what?"
"Like you already know how this ends."
I pause, one hand on the handle, and throw him a look over my shoulder.
"I do. It ends with me walking away." But we both know I won't. With that, I all but run out of the room. Fuck! What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Way to stand up for Mina, by the way, my snarky mind taunts me. Oh, shut up.
My heart is beating rapidly. The image of the sheet tent will forever stay burned in my brain, right next to that of his smoldering—yes, smoldering—eyes. Fuck!
He's a mob boss, Vi! A mob boss! He treats women like shit. Like, he can just jump from one to the other. I try to remind myself, hoping that repeating this mantra will help me regain a modicum of reality, just a smidgen. The police said he killed people in that parking garage. He killed people.
Yeah, but they were shooting at him. I have no idea where this voice is coming from. Nor do I want to. I just want it to shut up and let me go into a mode where I can shudder away from him instead of being caught in his magnetic pull.
I bury my face in my hands when I'm alone in the elevator.
Taking deep breaths, I try to regain my composure.
It's not working, the magnetic spell of this man—my patient—lures me deeper and deeper down the basement steps.
The darker it gets, the harder my heart hammers, but not in fear.
Oh no. This is a different kind of heart racing. This is me being turned on by him.
"You're silent," Alejandro remarks, bringing me back to reality. I don't remember much about climbing into the waiting car; my mind was busy fighting off wicked images of my boss and me on his bed with his tent erection, and with a start, I notice we're already halfway back to my house.
"Just thinking of some physical therapy I should do with your boss tomorrow to help him get back on his feet," I lie, but the double entendre is not lost on me, nor is it on my ovaries, who start up a chorus of singing Hallelujah, followed by my brain chiming in with Bad Decisions like it's scoring a Netflix original.
"He's strong. He'll be on his feet soon." Alejandro states, turning off the freeway.
Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of. And he won't need me anymore once he's back on his feet.