Chapter 4 - Stitches And Secrets
Luca watched me through half-lidded eyes as I pulled the halogen reading lamp closer, illuminating the gruesome tear along his bicep. The surgical stitches from his recent procedure had torn clean through the muscle tissue, opening a four-inch gash that wept dark, venous blood.
"You're shaking," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm cold," I lied, tearing open the antiseptic wipe. "And I don't particularly enjoy seeing people treated like target practice in the living room."
"This is what this house is, Elena. Violence and locked doors. You should have run to Charleston with your friend Sarah when you had the chance."
I pressed the antiseptic sponge directly against the wound. Luca didn't make a sound, but his jaw clenched so hard I heard the enamel grind. His left hand shot out and clamped down on my wrist, his grip surprisingly powerful despite his blood loss.
"Hold still," I whispered, not pulling away from his touch. "I'm numbing the area."
I injected the lidocaine with practiced precision, waiting two minutes before picking up the curved suture needle and surgical thread. My hands stopped shaking the moment the needle pierced the skin. For four years, I had kept my mother alive through home dialysis, bedsores, and emergency stitches when we couldn't afford the ambulance copays. Luca Rossi’s wound was just another crisis I refused to let beat me.
"Who taught you to do this?" Luca asked, his thumb lightly stroking the inside of my wrist where his hand still rested.
"A retired nurse who lived in the apartment below ours," I answered, keeping my eyes fixed on the neat, tight knots I was tying across his flesh. "She traded medical lessons for my mother's homemade pasta. We did what we had to do to survive."
"Survival is an ugly business."
"Not always," I countered, tying off the fourth suture. "Sometimes it just requires paying attention."
Luca went quiet. The only sound in the cavernous room was the crackle of a fresh log I had kicked into the fireplace before starting. As I tied the eighth and final knot, I leaned down to snip the surgical thread with the scissors.
My face was inches from his bare shoulder. I could smell the clean cedar of his soap mixed with the sharp metallic scent of gunpowder.
When I looked up, his face was mere inches from mine. He wasn't looking at my hands or the wound. He was staring directly at my mouth.
"Why didn't you hide in the vault?" he asked, his voice dropping into that deep, husky register that made my stomach flutter wildly.
"Because you were out here," I admitted softly.
Luca’s grip on my wrist shifted, his fingers sliding up my forearm until his palm cupped the back of my neck. He pulled me slightly closer, his dark eyes searching mine with a hunger that felt entirely untamed.
"Elena," he murmured, his breath warm against my lips. "You kissed me earlier and asked for nothing. Nobody in this house touches me without wanting a favor, a promotion, or a piece of my empire."
"I don't want your empire, Luca."
"Then what do you want?"
May you like
Before I could answer, the door swung open. Marcus stood in the threshold, stopping dead in his tracks as his eyes darted from Luca’s bare chest to my hand resting against his shoulder.
"Boss," Marcus cleared his throat, his face deadpan. "The council has requested an emergency sit-down at sunrise. Don Moretti himself is coming to the docks."
