Chapter 8 - The Butcher's Vow
The smell of antiseptic and fresh lilies woke me.
My eyelids felt like lead. When I finally forced them open, I realized I wasn't in a dreary hospital room. I was in a massive master bedroom with cream-colored silk walls, bathed in soft afternoon sunlight.
My left shoulder was tightly bound in clean white gauze. The throbbing pain had dulled to a manageable ache, thanks to an IV drip attached to the back of my hand.
Sitting curled up asleep at the foot of the king-sized bed was Leo, his thumb firmly planted in his mouth, hugging his plush bear.
And sitting in an armchair right beside my pillow was Ricardo Moretti.
He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes. His crisp white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, revealing the dark ink of his tattoos. He held an unlit cigarette between his fingers, his eyes never leaving my face.
When he saw my eyes open, the cigarette dropped from his hand.
“Clara,” he breathed, leaning forward immediately. His large, warm hand cupped my cheek with an aching gentleness. “You’re awake.”
“How... how long?” my voice was dry and scratchy, sounding like sandpaper.
“Three days,” Rico answered, pouring a glass of water from the nightstand and carefully bringing the straw to my lips. “The bullet passed clean through your shoulder blade. Missed your lung by two centimeters. My personal surgeons operated on you right here.”
I took a few grateful sips of water, feeling the cool liquid soothe my parched throat.
“Leo?” I asked weakly, glancing toward the foot of the bed.
“He hasn't left your side,” Rico murmured, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. “We had to bring his meals in here. Every time Dante tried to carry him to his room, he threw a tantrum until we put him back on this bed.”
A soft, tired smile touched my lips. “Good boy.”
Rico was silent for a long moment. He looked down at our hands, his fingers tangling slowly with mine. For a man who ruled an underworld empire through terror, his touch was impossibly soft.
“Marcone is dead,” Rico said quietly.
I looked at him.
“The entire syndicate is gone,” Rico continued, his tone cold and final. “I spent the last seventy-two hours burning everything they owned to ash. The docks, the warehouses, the corrupt politicians in their pockets. Nobody will ever threaten this house again. It’s over, Clara.”
“And you?” I asked, searching his dark eyes. “Are you whole?”
Rico let out a ragged breath, leaning his forehead against the edge of the mattress.
“When I saw you lying on that rug... covered in blood... I felt something die inside me, Clara,” he confessed, his voice trembling with an emotion he had suppressed for years. “When Elena died, I felt rage. I felt vengeance. But when I thought you were gone... I felt nothing. Just an empty, black abyss. Because you didn't just save Leo. You saved me.”
He lifted his head, his dark eyes burning with fierce, unapologetic passion.
“I spent six months living as a ghost. Ruling through blood because I didn't have anything left to care about. And then you walked into that restaurant with a glass of warm milk and told me to go to hell.”
A small laugh escaped my chest, making my shoulder twinge.
“You deserved it,” I whispered.
“I know I did,” Rico said, a faint, devastatingly handsome smile curving his lips. “I’m a violent man, Clara. My hands are stained with things you should never have to see. But I swear to you on my mother’s grave: for the rest of my life, every drop of blood I spill will be to protect you and Leo. If you let me.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, wild and free.
“Is that a job offer, Mr. Moretti?”
“No,” Rico leaned in, his lips hovering mere millimeters above mine, his breath warm against my skin. “It’s a plea. Don't be my governess, Clara. Be my partner. Be my equal. Be the mother of my son, and the only woman who holds my heart.”
Before I could answer, a small rustle stirred at the foot of the bed.
Leo sat up, rubbing his eyes. When he saw me looking at him, his face lit up like Christmas morning.
“Clara!” he squealed, scrambling across the duvet on his hands and knees.
“Careful, buddy, her shoulder—” Rico started, but Leo was already there.
The little boy didn't jump. He gently nestled into my uninjured side, wrapping his tiny arms around my neck, pressing his cheek against mine.
“I love you, Mamma,” Leo whispered clearly, without a single trace of fear.
Tears spilled over my eyelashes, warm and sweet. I looked up at Rico, whose eyes were shining with the same overwhelmed joy.
I reached out with my good hand, tangling my fingers into Rico’s dark hair, pulling him down to me.
“Yes,” I whispered against his lips.
May you like
And when Rico kissed me, deep, fierce, and full of promises kept, the shadows of the past finally burned away in the light.
***
