I race down the freeway with Cleo lying on the reclined seat beside me.
Every time I look at her pale face, rage pulses inside my veins. I will destroy whoever is behind this attack, and I won’t give them a quick death.
The image of Cleo covered in blood flashes in front of my eyes. I can’t blame her for saying she got shot—she was in shock, probably still is—but my chest got really fucking tight when I thought her life was in danger, and I didn’t like that.
I didn’t like that at all.
Instead of seeing it purely like a problem that needed to be solved, I saw it as…something else.
“How are you doing, tesoro?”
“Stop calling me that,” she grumbles.
Well, at least she’s well enough to talk back to me. I grab my phone and dial Doc’s number. Her wounds didn’t seem deep, but he’ll need to treat them and give her a full physical.
“Hello?” It’s his assistant who answers.
“Put Doc on the line,” I order.
“He’s in the operating room, Mr. Messero,” she says. “I’m sor—”
“It’s not a fucking request.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “Okay, one moment.”
I tap my fingers against the wheel as I wait.
“Mr. Messero? What is it?”
“I need you to come over.”
“I’m in the operating room.”
“I know. Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m in the middle of a—”
“I don’t give a fuck. Get someone else to take over or let them die, for all I care. My wife is hurt. We’ll be home in twenty minutes, and you better be there waiting for us.” I hang up. Annoyance pulses at my temples.
“Rafaele?”
I turn to look at Cleo. “What?”
Her eyes are wide. “Are you insane? I don’t want an innocent person to die because of me.”
“Trust me, if it’s Doc working on them, they’re far from innocent.”
There’s a line between her brows. “I can wait.”
“Five minutes ago, you thought you were dying, and now you think you can wait to get your injuries treated? No, you can’t. You’re bleeding and in shock.”
Her brows rise up her forehead. I realize that my voice is raised and my heart is pounding inside my chest. I crack my neck and swallow past a foreign tightness in my throat. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“It’s my fault.” The words are pouring out of me. “I should have let Sandro drive us. I made us a target.” I shut my mouth and clutch the wheel tighter. Cleo could have died tonight. All it would have taken is one well-aimed shot.
I suck in a deep breath. Why am I thinking about what-ifs? We’re safe. She’s safe. I need to calm the fuck down.
“You said it was his day off.” Her voice is quiet.
I grind my teeth. “I lied. I told him I didn’t need him tonight because I didn’t want him seeing you in that dress.” I can’t even look at her as I say those words. I’m supposed to protect her. Instead, I got her hurt.
She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the drive home. Maybe she’s processing how I’ve failed her. The thought lodges a knife inside my gut.
When we pull into the garage, Sabina and one of the maids are already waiting for us.
“Where is Doc?” I ask as I help Cleo out of the Bugatti.
“In your bedroom,” Sabina answers. “He’s waiting for you.”
I brush past them with Cleo in my arms and take her straight upstairs.
Doc’s already got all of his supplies laid out. “Put her down here,” he says, pointing at the bed. He adjusts his glasses. “What happened?”
I lay Cleo down and lift my jacket to show him the wounds.
Fuck, they look awful. “She cut herself on some glass. I don’t think the cuts are deep, but there’s a lot of them.”
Doc tsks. “All right. Let’s get these cleaned up and see if she needs stitches.”
My head pounds. I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. This is far from the first time I’ve been shot at, but I’ve never been this shaken up. I glance down at my hands. They’re covered in dried blood.
Her blood.
I take a step toward the bathroom. I need to wash this off. “I’ll be right back,” I say gruffly.
In the bathroom, I scrub the mix of dirt and blood off my hands and roll up my sleeves. Most of the blood on my shirt also belongs to Cleo. I fucked up. As a husband and as a don. I should have been more careful. Guilt surges back into my consciousness. I clench my jaw against it.
No.
I don’t have the luxury of feeling guilty. Feelings have no place in the life of a don. I learned that a long time ago.
My breathing deepens. Slowly, I push all the useless emotions out of my mind until all that remains is a blank canvas. A canvas where I can paint whatever I want.
When I come out, Doc is rummaging in his bag. “She’s got eleven lacerations on her stomach. A few will require stitches and might result in light scarring. She also appears to have a concussion.”
I rewind what happened in the dining room inside my head. Now that I’ve calmed down, it’s easy, like watching a movie. “She fell hard to the ground at one point. When I first heard the shots, I acted on instinct and pulled her down.”
Doc takes out a syringe. “Well, you probably saved both of your lives by doing that. I’m confident Cleo will make a full recovery.”
The tension in my shoulders eases. “Good.”
He sits back down on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to get the glass out and clean your wounds.”
Cleo presses back against her pillow. “What’s that?”
“Just a local anesthetic.”
She swallows. “I don’t like needles.”
“If I don’t numb you, it’ll hurt a lot more.”
She looks at me like she’s hoping I’ll tell Doc not to inject her. I can’t do that. He needs to treat her.
“You’ll be fine. It’s just a few shots,” I say.
My dismissive remark doesn’t land well. Hurt flashes in her eyes, but then it’s gone. Her gaze shutters. A prolonged silence fills the room, and I feel like the shittiest husband in the world.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Doc clears his throat. “Maybe it would help if you sat beside Cleo.”
I clench my jaw. Of course. She needs to be comforted. I can do that. It’s my duty, isn’t it? I walk around the bed, climb in on the other side, and wrap my arm around her shoulders. She stiffens for a moment before she relaxes into my touch.
“Ready?” Doc asks.
She stares at the syringe. “No.”
I run my thumb over her upper arm. “Don’t look at the needle. Look at me.”
She huffs a breath before she obeys. Our eyes lock. She’s so close that I can count her freckles. She looks tired and worn out, but she’s still fucking stunning.
My wife.
My gaze drops to her lips. The doctor is saying something, but I can’t hear him over the whooshing inside my ears.
Kiss her.
Cleo sucks in a breath. “Ow.”
I tear my gaze away from her face and down to her belly.
“Just one more,” Doc says. “Okay, done. Now, I’ll sew you up.” He pulls out a needle and some medical thread.
When Cleo sees them, her eyes widen. “I’ve never had this done to me before,” she says, sounding panicked. She presses into me. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, ohhhh—”
Doc squeezes one of her wounds shut and pushes the tip of the needle into her skin.
Cleo jerks. “Fuck! That hurt!”
I have to bite back a curse aimed at Doc. My nerves are stretched taut.
“I haven’t even pierced your skin,” the man says.
“I’m pretty sure you did.”
Doc blows out a frustrated breath. “This is going to take a long time if you keep jumping every time I bring the needle close to you.”
Do something. “Do you want me to do it?” I ask.
Slowly, she turns to look at me. “You’ve done this before?”
“Yes. Many times.” Sometimes, I don’t have the luxury of having Doc a fifteen-minute drive away. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve had to stitch myself or Nero up.
I ease my arm from around Cleo and get off the bed. “I’ll take it from here, Doc. It’ll make my wife more comfortable. Why don’t you go downstairs for a bit?”
He nods. “I’ll be back in fifteen to check on how you did.”
I take Doc’s spot and pick up the needle.
Cleo squeezes her eyes shut. “I feel like such a coward.”
“A lot of people are scared of needles.”
“You’re not. You’re not fazed by any of this, are you? You were so steady back at the restaurant.”
Is that what she thinks? I didn’t feel very steady when I saw her lying on the ground covered in her own blood.
I shake off that uncomfortable thought and refocus on the task at hand. “Take a deep breath.”
She scrunches up her face. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“You’re not. This will only take a few seconds. Breathe, Cleo. I know you’re strong enough to handle this.”
She darts her hand out and wraps it over my knee before giving me the smallest of nods. “Do it.”
I bring the needle closer and pierce her skin. She winces but keeps breathing deeply like I told her to.
“Good girl,” I murmur. “Just keep breathing.”
The pace of her breathing speeds up. Her fingernails dig into my leg, but I don’t show any sign of pain. If she needs to use me as her stress ball, she’s more than welcome to do it.
I work as fast as I can to sew her up. It only takes me about ten minutes before I’m snipping the last thread.
I put everything away on the nightstand. “All done.”
Slowly, she peels her eyes open. “Thanks.”
What is she thanking me for? “I’m the one who got you into this mess.”
She stares at me and swallows. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says. “Don’t blame yourself. I forced your hand by showing up to dinner in that dress. If I hadn’t, we would have been driven by Sandro, and the hitmen probably wouldn’t have attacked if the restaurant had been filled with other patrons.”
I place my hand over hers and lace our fingers together. “I liked that dress.”
Surprise slips into her expression before it morphs into wry amusement. “Admit it, you’re glad it’s ruined.”
“Not at all.” She looked sexy as hell in it. “I’ll buy you a replacement, and next time, you’ll wear it in the privacy of our own home.” I lean closer. “Without anything beneath it.”
Finally, some color returns to her cheeks.
The door opens, and Doc reappears. “How are we doing?”
The simmering tension around us bursts like a balloon. I let go of her hand and stand.
“Take a look.”
He comes over to examine my work and then gives me a pleased nod. “Good. The concussion is my main concern. I’d like to keep an eye on her for the next few days.”
“Keep your phone close. If her condition worsens, I want you on hand.”
“Very well.” He leaves and shuts the door behind him.
I drag my fingers through my hair. I need a shower, a strong drink, and a good eight hours of sleep, but for now, I’ll settle on just the first. I unbutton my shirt and toss it in the hamper.
Cleo gasps. “You’re hurt too.”
I glance down. It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about my arm. There’s a shallow wound where a bullet grazed me on my biceps, but I barely feel it. “It’s a scratch.”
“Let me see,” she demands stubbornly. “Come here, or I’m going to come over to you.”
“Stay still,” I growl.
It really is nothing. The only annoying thing is that the cut bisected one of my tattoos. A dark, hooded figure levitating over a bed of bones.
My father.
Cleo’s eyes roam the wound and the image beneath it. “Your tattoo is ruined.”
I shrug. “Adds character, don’t you think?”
“Do you need me to stitch you up?”
“I think you might cause more damage than the bullet.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “Rude. Well, at least get the doctor to do it.”
“It’s fine. I can do it myself in the bathroom.”
She purses her lips but doesn’t argue.
In the shower, the water runs pink for a while, but I know the cut isn’t anything to worry about. I press my palms against the wall of the shower and let the water run down my back.
She’s fine. The doctor will make sure she has a smooth recovery. There’s no logical reason to worry at this point.
There’s nothing logical about wanting to punch a wall either, but here I am. Why the fuck am I so riled up? I grab a bar of soap and scrub at my skin. Get it together, Messero.
When I come out of the bathroom, Cleo has changed into a T-shirt, and she’s lying stiffly on the bed. Her gaze darts to me, and her eyes widen when she realizes I’m only wearing a pair of boxers.
I wonder how she’d react if I walked over to her and kissed her right now.
She wouldn’t push me away. What happened tonight chipped at her walls. Maybe even brought them down completely. But I don’t feel like playing our game tonight. Not when she’s weak and vulnerable.
“I’ll sleep on the ottoman,” I offer, dragging my fingers through my wet hair.
She shakes her head. “You’re injured too.”
“I told you it’s nothing.”
“Rafe.” Her jaw firms. “The bed is huge.” She reaches across and pulls back the duvet on the other side. “Just get in.”
I stare at her for a long moment. She doesn’t back down.
All right. If she insists, I’m not going to fight her about it. I walk around the bed and climb in. A moment later, she turns off the light and darkness wraps around us. Soon, her breathing slows and deepens. I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling and revisiting old memories that made me who I am. Memories of my mother and my father. Memories of that lamplit bedroom and my bare feet against the smooth hardwood floor.
I’ll stop when you stop your whining, boy.
I exhale a heavy breath and shut my eyes.
