Page 93 of Cage the Storm
I grab his shirt and step in front of him. After he slips his arms inside, I begin buttoning his shirt with trembling fingers. Hisbreath hitches, pride fighting pain, but he lets me.
Once I’ve finished, I say, “You need to see the doctor.”
His brows flick up in challenge. “Do I?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t start.”
Nico’s fingers brush my lower back. “Lead the way, then.”
I navigate the maze of halls with Nico’s instruction since I’ve never been to Westchester Mansion. I’m sure it will take some time to familiarize myself with all the rooms.
“Shirt off,” the doctor orders. Nico doesn’t move. His jaw locks, eyes fixed on the floor. I step closer.
“Let me.” He freezes, but doesn’t stop me.
I start at the top button. My fingers are steady, but my chest isn’t. Remembering how he couldn’t do it earlier and how he threw the shirt on the floor like it offended him. I’d helped him then. I’m helping him now. And it must be eating him alive.
When I reach the bottom, I ease the fabric off his shoulders. It sticks to the lashes on his back, angry red lines, some still bleeding. He hisses through his teeth. The doctor swears under his breath.“Cristo.”
“Pants too.” Nico unbuckles his belt and lets them drop to the floor. Refusing my help. A bullet grazed his thigh, leaving the skin puckered and raw. Bruises bloom across his ribs, two of them clearly broken from the way they dip inward. The doctor prods them, and Nico clenches his fist on the exam table, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“Turn,” Antonio snaps. He checks the concussion with a penlight, frowns at Nico’s sluggish pupils, then splints his broken fingers again. “Blood transfusion. Now.”
“No.”
“You’ll die,” the doctor growls.
Nico barks a laugh. “Not today.”
His eyes catch mine—Stay out of it—as the doctorstitches the worst of the cuts. When he’s done, Nico shrugs his shirt back on like it’s nothing. But I see the tremor in his hands. The sweat on his neck.
“I want you back here every day so I can clean your wounds properly. Heed my warning. If you keep running into battle, your body’s going to give out before your luck does.”
Nico mumbles, “Not my luck you should be worrying about, Antonio.”
I cross my arms. “Meaning?”
He doesn’t answer, and he’s off the hook when there’s a knock on the door and Mateo pokes his head in with a grin. “Food’s ready, if you two wanna eat.”
Nico grunts, which I assume is agreement.
The dining room is loud when we walk in. Enzo’s nursing a drink, Bria and Sophie are picking apart a loaf of bread like scavengers, and Mateo and Amara are too busy talking to even think about food. Laurent has outdone himself—roast meats, seasonal vegetables, and fresh rolls that are still piping hot.
Nico stays beside me, one hand toying with the table linen. I nudge him gently, an unspoken demand: eat. His lips twitch, but he listens. For once.
Caterina’s absence doesn’t surprise me. She knows better than to join us since Nico found out how she treated me at the safehouse. The reason he kicked her out in the first place. But I’m sure she’s lurking nearby. Nico doesn’t look for her. He doesn’t bring it up. Neither do I.
My mother’s missing too. Probably licking their wounds somewhere together, two women who thought they were untouchable and learned otherwise. I don’t feel sorry for them.
The dining room hums with quiet conversation. Plates are scraped clean, and drinks pass between hands that once held guns. The air feels calm, almost peaceful, for the first time in years.
Nico leans back in his chair, fingers curled around his glass, watching the room with a stony expression. He’s still injured, still exhausted, but the fight is over. We made it.
Mateo snorts at something Sophie says, Amara finally smiles, and even Enzo, gruff as ever, tips his glass in a rare show of approval. We’re all here. And we’re alive.
I glance at Nico, catching the glint in his eye, the spark of something powerful, inevitable. He knows what this means. We all do. Our enemies are gone. The battlefield has been cleared.
This empire? It’s ours now.
