Page 75 of Mafia Shade's Reluctant Bride
He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call Kayla and let her know what’s going on so that she can take care of Matteo and inform Luca.”
I flopped back onto the bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin. I felt miserable. Not just physically but emotionally because, despite how much Lorenzo annoyed me and despite how much I wanted to deny it, I liked him being here. I liked the way he took charge without hesitation. I liked the way he knew what I needed even when I wouldn’t admit it. I liked how he already took control of the situation and prioritized me before everything because I am sure he also had business to get back to. That wasn’t even in the equation now. All he was thinking about was me and my well-being. That is always who he has been.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
He spoke to Kayla in a low voice, reassuring her and making a joke about how he had to deal with a “grumpy, fevered Maria” and told her that she should pray for him. I would’ve thrown a pillow at him if I had the energy, but at this point, it would be my hand lifting me, not the other way around.
“Kayla says Matteo is fine,” Lorenzo said when he hung up. “And that I should sedate you if necessary.”
“She’s a traitor,” I snarled, hating that she didn’t even have my back.
“She’s smart.”
I groaned, curling up into the sheets. “I just want to sleep.”
“Good. Because that’s exactly what you’re going to do.”
I peeked at him through tired eyes. “You’re bossy.”
He smirked. “You’re stubborn.”
I sniffled. “Touché.”
He moved toward the door but hesitated. “If you need anything, I’m right next door. I will also step out a little to get some things we need and drugs from the pharmacy, so you can just call me.”
My chest tightened. “I know.”
For a moment, he just looked at me. Then, before I could even think too much about it, he reached down, brushing a loose strand of hair from my forehead. The touch was light and barely there. But it lingered, and my heart betrayed me with a weak, stuttering beat.
“Get some rest, Maria.”
Then he was gone, and I was left lying in bed, feeling entirely too warm for someone who was supposed to be freezing.
Almost an hour later, my body still felt like it had been trampled by a herd of elephants. Every inch ached, my throat burned, and my head pounded like a drum at a festival. I pulled the duvet tighter around me, sinking deeper into the chair as if it could somehow absorb my sickness. The worst part? Lorenzo had come back, and he was watching me like a hawk, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, his usual scowl deepened with something dangerously close to concern. He had also gotten me drugs, which I had taken.
“You still look so terrible,” he teased, a smirk forming on his lips. Lorenzo can be such a pain in the ass when he wants to be.
“Thanks. That’s exactly what a sick person wants to hear.” My voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. Talking felt like scraping my throat with sandpaper.
“I know. I am glad I can be there for you.”
“I can’t wait for you to fall sick too, so I can give you a taste of your medicine, but I am so much better now. I think we can go,” I muttered, trying to stand up to prove a point. My body had other plans. The room tilted, my knees buckled, and before I could faceplant into the floor, Lorenzo caught me. His arms were strong and steady—too steady.
“Yeah, that was convincing,” he said, half amused, half exasperated. He lowered me back into the chair gently. “You’re not going anywhere. Quit being stubborn, Maria, and let me take care of you.”
“You can start by being nice to me,” I croaked.
“I am the nicest person you know,” he smirked. “Now, stay put. I’m making you something to eat.”
Lorenzo cooking? That was something I had to see. I managed to crack an eye open as he disappeared into the small kitchenette in the hotel room suite. The sound of cabinets opening and closing followed, then the sizzle of a pan. The smell of something—butter? Garlic?—drifted through the air, making my stomach grumble despite the sickness.
Minutes later, he returned with a steaming bowl of soup. “Eat.”
I blinked at it. “You didn’t just order this?”
“No, Maria. I can actually cook. Did you forget I am the son of Isabella Bianchi? That woman would drag you by the ear to the kitchen.” He pulled a chair up in front of me as I chuckled. Isabella Bianchi was that kind of woman, no doubt.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered.
