Page 27 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
“No, you can’t,” I reply, my fingers already working. The fabric peels away, and the damage beneath makes my stomach churn. The graze along his side isn’t as bad as I feared, but it’s deep enough to sting, dark enough to make my throat tighten. The sight of it doesn’t repulse ome, though, if anything, it pulls me closer.
One of the the staff has discreetly left a medical kit on the table beside the couch. With brows knit in concentration, I dive in, rummaging through it with more determination than skill. Gauze, antiseptic, scissors… it all feels inadequate against the enormity of Luca Salvatore bleeding in my living room. “Does this happen often?” I ask, my voice low as I press a clean cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding.
“Define ‘often’,” he replies, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“This isn’t funny.” I glance up, glaring at him, and he quickly rearranges his features so he won’t look too amused. “It’s the life,” he says simply.
“The life is barbaric.” I look up from the kit and into his eyes, my lips pressed thin.
He merely shrugs. “It’s survival.”
His words hang in the small space between us, and while I’d love to challenge him, there’s no time. I return my focus to hiswound, dabbing antiseptic onto the cut with hands that won’t stop shaking. His body is all heat and tension beneath my touch, and I hate how aware I am of every inch of him. “Hold still,” I mutter when he flinches.
“You’re trembling.” His voice is rich and thick and hides laughter. I bite the inside of my cheek, refusing to meet his gaze. “Maybe because I don’t patch up mafia dons every day.”
His chuckle is a low, ragged sound, the kind that makes me feel both ridiculous and anchored at the same time.
“I had it under control,” he says after a beat.
“Oh, of course,” I snap, my frustration boiling over. “Because nothing says control like strolling in with your shirt torn and a fresh bullet graze, acting like it’s no big deal.”
That earns me another smirk, but there’s a softness just beneath it, a barely-suppressed glee that tells me he’s enjoying seeing me like this. It makes my chest tighten and my hands steadier as I wrap the bandage around his torso. “Who did this?” I ask, my voice gone whispery.
He doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifts past me, to some point in the distance that only he can see. “Some people needed to make a point,” he says finally.
I pause, my fingers hovering over the knot I’m tying. “Was it meant for you?”
“Most things are.”
The bitterness in his tone catches me off guard. Luca doesn’t usually let anything slip, not pain, not vulnerability, and certainly not doubt. “And your men?” I press, though part of me already knows the answer.
He sighs and looks past me. “Two of my best gone.”
My eyes catch a fleeting grief in his eyes before he locks it away. I knot the bandage with careful precision, then sit back on my heels, my hands falling into my lap. “I’m sorry.”
His gaze snaps to mine, sharp and searching. “Don’t be.”
“But I am,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “You lost people who mattered. That… matters.”
Great. Definitely my most impressive reply ever. Totally didn’t sound about three years old.
For a moment, silence stretches between us. Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing the back of my hand. The gesture is so unexpected, so gentle, it makes my breath hitch. “Why do you care, dear wife of mine?” he asks, his voice quiet. “Does this mean you’re not afraid of the demon?”
I don’t have an answer. Not one that makes sense, anyway. “I don’t know.”
He leans closer, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of everything—his scent, his heat, the way his gaze drops to my lips before returning to my eyes.
“Don’t start caring too much, Valentina,” he murmurs.
I stay still, watching his motions in silence.
He leans back on the couch, his shirt discarded and the bandage around his torso standing out starkly against his olive skin. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling for a moment, a rare stillness settling over him. “You don’t have to stay,” he says finally, his voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
I fold my arms across my chest, leaning against the edge of the sofa. “Nice try. You just bled all over my floor, Luca. The least you can do is tell me what happened out there.”
He glances at me, his lips tugging into a faint smirk. “I’ve already told you.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
