Page 17 of His Mafia Lover

The world is a blur of chaos and noise as I pace the waiting room of Chicago General, my heart lodged in my throat, my hands shaking with a mix of fear and impotent rage. Santino, my fierce, beautiful warrior, lies broken and bleeding on an operating table, and there's not a goddamn thing I can do but wait and pray to a God I'm not sure I believe in anymore.

I've never felt so helpless, so utterly lost. The memory of his body, torn and shattered by the Romanos' bullets, is seared into my mind, a waking nightmare I can't escape. The thought of losing him, of facing a world without his strength and passion, his fierce, devoted love...it's unbearable.

I'm jolted out of my spiraling thoughts by a hand on my shoulder, turning me roughly to face a haggard, haunted-looking Gia. "We need to move him," she says without preamble, her voice tight with strain. "The doctors have done all they can here, but he's not safe. Not with the Romanos still out for blood."

I stare at her, uncomprehending. "What? Gia, no, he just got out of surgery. He needs to be monitored, needs proper medical care-"

"And he'll get it," she cuts me off. "At the safehouse. Aaron, please. I know it's not ideal, but we have no choice. Santino...my brother has spent his whole life protecting this family. Now it's our turn to protect him."

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat like swallowed glass. The thought of moving Santino, of taking him away from the doctors and nurses who might be his only chance...it terrifies me. But Gia's right. Santino's enemies won't stop, won't rest until they've finished the job. Until they've destroyed the man who dared to defy them, to turn his back on their bloody, merciless world.

"Okay," I rasp, the word tasting like ashes on my tongue. "Okay, Gia. Let's do it. Let's get him somewhere safe."

The safehouse Gia takes us to is less a house and more a fortress, all reinforced steel and bulletproof glass, a state-of-the-art security system humming in the walls. And in the master bedroom, hooked up to softly beeping machines and IVs, lies the still, pale form of the man I love.

"Oh, Santino," I choke out, sinking to my knees beside the bed, my shaking hand finding his, mindful of the wires and tubes. He looks so fragile, so broken, a far cry from the vital, powerful man who stole my heart and remade my world. "I'm here, baby. I'm right here with you, and I'm not going anywhere. So you just...you keep fighting, okay? You come back to me."

The next few days and nights bleed together in a haze of exhaustion and fear, of clinging to Santino's hand and watching the rise and fall of his bandaged chest. I talk to him constantly, my voice hoarse from overuse, telling him all the things I never got to say, all the hopes and dreams I have for our future.

"We're going to get out of this city," I promise him, my lips brushing his knuckles. "Go somewhere quiet, somewhere green. Somewhere Matteo can have a real childhood, with a yard to play in and a dog to chase. And you and I...we'll make love in the grass under the stars, slow and sweet. We'll dance in the kitchen to cheesy love songs. We'll fight and make up and grow old disgracefully together. But you gotta wake up first, my love. You gotta come back to me so we can have all of that."

And then, on the fourth night, a miracle. The slightest twitch of fingers against my palm, the flutter of dark lashes against too-pale skin. "Aaron," Santino croaks, his voice rusty from disuse. "You...stayed."

"Of course I stayed," I manage through my tears, lifting his hand to my lips. "Where else would I be? I love you, Santino Ricci. For better or worse, remember?"

His lips curve in the shadow of a smile, a glint of the old mischief in his pain-glazed eyes. "Pretty sure...this qualifies...as worse."

I laugh, giddy and disbelieving and so goddamn grateful I can barely breathe. "Nah," I whisper, cautiously smoothing his dark hair back from his clammy forehead. "Any day I get to see these beautiful eyes is a good day in my book."

He hums, low and contented, turning his face into my touch. But then a shadow passes over his expression, memories flickering behind his eyes. "Matteo," he rasps urgently. "Gia...are they...?"

"Safe," I assure him, my thumb caressing the sharp angle of his cheekbone. "They're safe, my love. Gia got Matteo out before the attack. They're both okay."

Relief slackens his features, his eyes already fluttering closed again as the momentary surge of adrenaline fades. "Love you," he mumbles, his words starting to slur. "My Aaron. Love you...so much."

And then he's asleep again, his breathing deep and even. But this time, it feels less like a farewell and more like a promise. A vow that he'll keep fighting, keep clawing his way back to my side.

In the coming days and weeks, as Santino slowly heals, I cling to that promise, to the knowledge of his love. It sustains me through the long nights of changing bandages and coaxing broth past his lips, the longer days of physical therapy and frustrated tears. Little by little, I watch him come back to himself, the shadows receding from his eyes, the strength returning to his reclaimed body.

And with that strength comes the heat, the hunger that's always crackled between us, a live wire just waiting for a spark. I feel it in the way his gaze lingers on me as I move around the room, in the deliberate brush of his fingers against my skin as I help him stand, walk, reclaim his independence piece by hard-fought piece.

It all comes to a head one stormy night, the rain lashing the windows, the thunder a low, ominous rumble. Santino is on his feet, restless and prowling, his wounds healed enough now for him to move with some of his old deadly grace.

He pins me with a look across the room, his eyes black and fathomless in the low light. "Aaron," he says, and God, the way he wraps his tongue around my name, like a prayer and a curse all at once. "Come here."

Here's the expanded section with more detail, dialogue, physical sensation, mafia and gay romance tropes, and high heat:

I go to him helplessly, drawn like a moth to the flame of his dark, dangerous charisma. He pulls me in with strong, sure arms, the corded muscles flexing beneath his inked skin. And then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, his tongue delving past my lips to stake a claim, to brand me as his own.

I groan into the kiss, my hands fisting in his thick, dark hair, in the soft cotton of his shirt. It's been so long, so many weeks of fear and strain and longing, of not knowing if I'd ever feel the heat of his touch again. Having him like this now, vital and virile against me, his body honed by violence but gentled by love...it's almost too much to bear.

"Santino," I gasp as he walks me back towards the bed, his lips trailing fire down the column of my throat. "Please, I need..."

"Shh, I know, baby," he soothes, his voice a rough velvet rasp against my skin. "I've got you. Gonna take such good care of you, gonna worship this gorgeous body like it deserves."

He strips me with deft, efficient moves, his eyes molten black as they rake over every inch of revealed skin. I've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet so utterly safe, cherished. Like I'm the most precious thing in his world, a treasure he'll guard with his life.

Santino gentles the kiss, his lips moving languorously over mine as his nimble fingers find the buttons of my shirt, parting the fabric and shoving it off my shoulders. "Been craving the taste of you," he breathes against my mouth, punctuating each word with a nip of sharp teeth. "Dreaming of having you spread out beneath me, begging for my cock. Gonna make that dream a reality now, gonna claim every inch of this sweet body and remind you who you belong to."

---