I crush my cigarette under my heel with more force than necessary, needing an outlet for my frustration. For over two months, I’ve stalked Narciso’s every move, and I’m no closer to finding out who is funding him than I was when he attacked Giorgio and Aurora in the clinic parking lot.
Thanks to my vigilance, another two of Seppi’s goons and a handful of other foot soldiers from neighboring gangs no longer walk the earth, but it’s not enough. Using various methods, I broke them all and they all proved to be dead ends. I can’t return to my daily life at my boss’ side until we know who’s threatening the Vivaldi and other founding mafia families in NYC. I can’t be the one to put Aurora and Tristan in danger again.
But at what cost? Emma and her sister live with big red targets plastered all over their bodies since I spend so much time with them. Visiting Narciso’s hideouts while doing the dirty legwork for my don was supposed to be a solo mission, but I couldn’t abandon Emma when the mayhem descended around her.
I’ve done my best to protect my wife and her sister, but Giorgio can only spare so many men, and I can’t leave my mission half finished.
I shift my weight to my other leg and light another cigarette as I consider my options.
Emma won’t quit her job or take an extended vacation if I don’t have an end date for her. At first, I thought she was a workaholic out of habit—she must have had a rough time of it after escaping my brother—but when the weeks stretched on and she didn’t slow down, I finally pulled my head out of my ass and realized she’s battling her own demons in the only way she knows how.
Except I’m not sure she’s winning and I don’t know how to help her. Giving her space isn’t an option; I’m too addicted. Fucking her until she’s a boneless heap only makes her more exhausted. Pampering her only sends her deeper into her shell.
I fill my lungs with smoke and enjoy the rush of nicotine.
When she appears from the back hall still wearing her scrubs and with a clipboard in her hand, I check my watch and take another pull of my smoke. Her shift ends in five minutes, but I haven’t seen her replacement arrive yet, so she probably won’t clock out for a while. The frustration simmering in my veins increases.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I move to the shadows on the opposite side of the mouth of the alley and lean against the brick building as I fish my phone out and check the caller ID. It’s Alessio; the man watching Narciso’s current hideout so I can escort my wife home.
He wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency. I curse and snuff out my cigarette on the wall as I answer.
Less than a minute later, I end the call and send Emma a text, warning her not to leave the hospital without me, and dial Giorgio as I start down the street.
“He’s moving. Any updates from the boss lady?” I ask.
“She’s checking now,” he says.
The line goes quiet until I reach the end of the block. I step onto the street to cross the road. The hair on my nape stands on end.
A motorcycle emerges out of the darkness, barreling straight toward me with its lights off. I jump and roll out of the way, but the muffler smacks my foot. Agony streaks up my leg as I push through another roll, narrowly missing the second motorcycle as it swerves toward me.
My phone glimmers on the asphalt as a break in the clouds brightens the night. I scramble to my feet, grab my phone, and run back toward the emergency room. Blinding pain shoots up my leg with every step, but fear propels me forward. I must reach Emma. This can’t be a coincidence. I’m not the target. She is.
Giorgio’s faint and tinny voice reminds of our call, so I lift the phone to my ear.
“Anything?” I demand.
Aurora’s voice sounds in the background, and my gut clenches as I realize she’s trying to calm Tristan down.
“Nothing. She checked all the devices in and around Narciso’s apartment. There’s nothing,” Giorgio responds.
I curse and run across the road toward the ambulance entrance.
“I need a favor from the boss lady,” I growl against the pain.
Giorgio tells me to quit being a dramatic little bitch and just spit it out, then agrees to my request before ending the call. Just before I reach the double glass sliding doors, the entire building goes dark as Aurora cuts the power. I turn my body sideways and wedge myself through the partially opened doors before locking them shut behind me.
The shouting of panicked patients, harried staff calling out to each other, and medical equipment beeping as the emergency generators come online bombard my ears.
I slip my pistol from its holster and my knife from its sheath as I turn toward the hall. The nurse who was supposed to replace Emma rushes out from behind the nurse’s station near the ambulance entrance with a small flashlight and a stack of supplies.
A trio of men wearing all black slips around the corner at the other end of the hall toward the on-call and break room.
The nurse’s flashlight catches Narciso’s profile as she darts into the nearest room.
A feminine squeak cuts short from the front of the building, but I’m not sure if it’s from the waiting room or the hall to the break room.
I lunge forward and grit my teeth as pain arrows through my ankle, my breaths sawing in and out of my lungs as I push myself to move faster.
When a patient steps out of their room in front of me, I shoulder them out of the way, knocking them backward and rushing forward. The man yells as he sees the weapons in my hands. I ignore him and peek around the corner into the adjacent hall.
A woman lies prone in the middle of the floor, but the red emergency lights reveal her pregnant belly, assuring me it isn’t Emma. After a flash of relief, guilt plagues me, so instead of limping past her, I drop to a knee, check her breathing, and roll her onto her side before rising.
White-hot agony pierces my shoulder. My ears ring from the blast of a gunshot. I stumble and hit the wall, staying upright by sheer force of will.
Narciso’s goons rush forward. I shoot one in the knee and the other in the hip, but they tackle me as I pull the trigger a third time.
The man on the left lands on me like dead weight, smacking my wounded shoulder into the floor and covering me in the blood spraying from his head. His buddy swings his knife, but I pull the dead man on top of me as I roll. I grunt as his blade sinks into my human shield.
“Don’t move,” Narciso snarls.
His shoes bracket my vision. I gauge the distance between us as I skim my eyes up his body to meet his face. He stands just far enough away to be out of reach while he aims his handgun straight between my eyes.
“I can see why my nephew likes you. You’re a fucking cockroach, aren’t you? Always scurrying around and refusing to die.”
He sneers as his accomplice tries to yank his knife free of the dead man and fails. With emotionless eyes, Narciso shifts the muzzle of his gun to the goon’s temple and pulls the trigger. As brain matter sprays the wall, he returns his aim to my head. The man slumps on top of me, adding more weight to my trapped arms.
“Although, I will admit, you have great taste in broads. Where is that sexy whore of a nurse?”
“I’m here, dipshit!”
Emma emerges from behind the nurse’s station with a rolling chair held over her head in both hands. She throws before fully coming into view.
Narciso’s gun barks. I shout. A wave of desperation lends me the strength of twenty men. I shove the dead bodies off me and surge upright.
In the most terrifying moment of my life, I lunge between Narciso and Emma, but she’s too fast, twisting to avoid my outstretched hand and jabbing a massive needle into each of Narciso’s thighs. She depresses the plungers before grabbing the chair and slamming it down onto him repeatedly.
When she doesn’t stop, I holster my pistol, sheathe my knife, and lift her off her feet with a bear hug from behind. She screams and jams her heels into my shins until my voice finally breaks through her mania.
“You’re okay, mia caramellina. He’s dead. Calm down,” I murmur against the top of her head.
She goes limp and chokes on a sob.
“I-I’m sorry! I’m gonna—”
Her stomach clenches. I lean her forward just in time to avoid her vomiting all over us. As she retches and shakes in my arms, I stroke her back and murmur nonsense, comforting her as best I can.
She dry heaves before getting herself under control and accepting the tissues I snag from the nurse’s station.
“What do we—”
Her eyes widen and she stops mid-question when she notices the pregnant woman.
She snaps from overwhelmed first-time killer to first responder in less than a heartbeat.
I let her rush to the pregnant woman and pull out my phone as I limp behind her. A few words later, and I know my men will clean things up before the police arrive.
The pregnant woman rouses and clutches her head.
“No, don’t sit up. Just breathe,” Emma says.
“It’s time to go, mia caramellina,” I say.
She swings mutinous eyes at me, but her countenance morphs into alarm.
“That can’t be all your blood. Where are you hurt?”
Despite the pain pulsing through me, my cock hardens as she gives me her full attention. I pull her flush against me and fight the urge to kiss her, aware she’d most likely bite my tongue off if I tried.
“It’s nothing serious. We need to leave,” I say.
She pushes and twists out of my arm. I hiss as pain shoots up and down my arm.
“Fine. Let me grab a few things, then we can go.”
I reach for her, but she disappears inside the supply closet. My vision doubles. Shaking my head proves to be a mistake. I steel my spine and step toward the closet.
She returns with two bags full of supplies.
I stare in shock as she weaves her fingers into mine and tugs me toward the door. She leans over the partition to the nurse’s station and snags an open bottle off the desk.
“Drink this. Now.”
I didn’t think it was possible, but I fall more in love with her as she mumbles obscenities under her breath about big bad mafia men needing to be rescued.
After chugging the entire bottle of juice, I tuck her under my arm and avoid putting my weight on her despite my limp until she huffs in annoyance and moves to my other side.
“Lean on me, stronzo, or we’ll never get home,” she snarls.
Home sounds pretty fucking good right now, so I forgive her insulting tone and accept her help as we exit through the front doors and step onto the sidewalk. I push my pain and dizziness away and sharpen my senses, refusing to risk my wife’s safety if we’re attacked on the streets.
By the time we make it through the front door of our apartment, a sheen of sweat covers us both and our breaths emerge ragged and choppy from exertion. She stops me from sitting to take off my shoes and instead ushers me down the hall and into the bathroom. After shutting and locking the door behind us, she lowers me onto the closed toilet seat like I’m a geriatric old man. I humor her, coveting her concern.
She turns on the shower and adjusts the temperature before returning to me and pushing my jacket off my shoulders. With practiced ease, she removes my pistols from their holsters and unloads all but one. She leaves the loaded handgun on the shelf nearest the shower, so it’s in easy reach no matter where we are in the room.
As she unbuckles my chest harness, I steal a quick kiss on her forehead. She stills and meets my gaze.
“I’m sorry, Fiero,” she says.
I study her eyes before asking, “Why?”
“I killed Narciso before you could get what you needed from him,” she says.
I sigh and wrap my fingers around her nape.
“It’s not your fault, but if it’ll make you feel better, I can punish you until you forget everything except who you belong to.”
Maybe I meant to say it in jest, but the hunger in my voice betrays me. When interest sparks in her eyes and her breath catches, I smirk and rub my thumb over her bottom lip.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say.
When she doesn’t argue, depraved visions flood my thoughts, but she plasters her palm over my lips and blocks my kiss.
“Shower and treatment first. I can’t have my husband bleeding out on me. Capisci?” she says with a quirked brow.
A devious smile lifts my lips. I lick her palm and relish her sharp inhale as lust liquifies her eyes.
She scowls and moves her hand down to clamp her fingers around my jaw.
My cock hardens so fast my head spins. She’s the only one I’d allow to manhandle me, and her willingness to bear my retaliation is such a turn on I struggle to breathe.
“Behave yourself, mio marito, or you’ll be too tired to follow through with your threat by the time I finish bandaging you up.”
By the feral gleam in her eyes, she means it, so I sit quietly like her life-sized doll as she undresses me. After hanging my chest harness on an empty hook by the door, she tugs my shirt over my head and frowns as she studies the new gash on my arm.
“Another scar to add to the collection hidden under all your tattoos. Why do you live like this, Fiero?” she asks.
“Because some things are worth the pain, mia caramellina,” I answer without hesitation.
When her pupils shrink and she swallows, I know she reads my message loud and clear.
She’s worth it. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect her, and after tonight, I wonder if she feels the same about me. Even as the lingering terror sours my gut, I can’t help but think she looked glorious as she threw that chair and went apeshit on Narciso.
For me. She killed him to protect me.
My heart skips a beat as she traces her finger around the oozing gash on my arm. With every demanding tug as she strips us both and leads me into the shower, every sensual glide of the washcloth as she cleans my entire body, every careful stroke of the towel as she dries me, and every skilled touch as she treats and bandages my wounds, she silently vows to love and test me for the rest of our lives.
And when she wakes me in the middle of the night, initiating sex for the first time, I worship her like the goddess she is.
She rules my world. Owns my soul. Controls my future.
Without her, I’m nothing. She’s mine. My wife. My soulmate. Mia caramellina.
And I’m hers. Forever.
