I Calmed A Crying Child In Italian—When His Father Stepped Out Of The Shadows, I Realized Whose Hand I Was Holding

For the next two hours, the grand penthouse smelled like rubbing alcohol, sterile gauze, and blood.

Gianni brought up a private medical kit from the subterranean motor pool, his expression grim and watchful. He hovered near the doorway like a gargoyle, his hand resting on the holster beneath his left armpit, while I cleaned the wound on Matteo's flank.

It was a bullet graze, deep and jagged, but it hadn't shattered his ribs. The slug had torn through the muscle tissue, leaving an ugly, blackened furrow that required fifteen stitches.

Matteo refused painkillers. He sat with his jaw clamped shut, sweat dripping down his temple, his knuckles turning white against the leather armrests as I threaded the surgical needle. He didn't make a sound. Not a groan. Not a whimper. The only sign of his agony was the rapid pulsing of the vein in his neck and the way his gaze never left my face.

""You have steady hands,"" he murmured through clenched teeth as I tied off the eighth stitch.

""Hold still, or I'll make this scar crooked,"" I replied, focusing on the tension of the thread. ""You're lucky. Two inches to the right and it would have clipped your femoral artery when you were running.""

A bitter sound escaped his throat. ""I wasn't running.""

""Of course you weren't,"" I said dryly. ""Men like you never run. You just bleed on expensive rugs to prove a point.""

Gianni shifted by the door, a low rumble in his throat as if warning me to watch my tongue. But Matteo raised a single finger, silencing his lieutenant instantly. A faint, genuine trace of amusement softened the harsh lines around his mouth.

""You are very brave, Miss Bloom. Or very foolish.""

""I'm practical,"" I said, snipping the thread and applying antibiotic ointment with sterile gauze. ""If you die tonight, your enemies come through that door tomorrow. Marco needs his father. And frankly, I've grown fond of the little monster.""

Matteo looked away, gazing toward the dark nursery corridor where his son slept under the watchful eye of Mrs. Rossi. ""His mother, Sofia... she was gentle. Like you. But she could not bear the shadow of this life. When the car bomb went off in Naples three years ago, she threw herself over Marco. She saved him, but she left me with a ghost.""

The vulnerability in his voice was like a knife to the heart. This was the man New York whispered about in fear—a ruthlessly efficient boss who ruled by blood and strategy—yet here he was, bleeding in the dark, mourning the woman who had died shielding their child.

""He doesn't have a ghost,"" I said softly, taping the gauze into place. ""He has you. But you have to stay alive to raise him, Matteo. Stop fighting battles you can win with your mind.""

He turned back to look at me. The distance between us had collapsed. I was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to see the amber flecks in the deep brown of his irises. His hand came up—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a stray strand of dark hair away from my forehead. His touch was surprisingly gentle for a man whose hands were built for violence.

""Thank you, Nadia,"" he said, using my first name for the first time without a title.

Before I could answer, Gianni’s radio crackled with static.

""Boss,"" a voice hissed through the speaker. ""The docks are secure. But we found something in the shooter's car. It wasn't just Moretti's men. It was an inside leak from the Santoro branch. They know about the girl. They're planning something for the charity gala on Friday.""