Chapter 7 - Blood and Bandages
The second-floor master suite smelled of antiseptic, iodine, and fresh blood.
Dr. Rossi, the Moretti family’s private surgeon, finished tying off the last nylon suture on Clara’s shoulder with practiced, clinical speed. The bullet had been a grazing wound—a high-velocity rifle round that had ripped open a four-inch furrow along her upper back, chewing through muscle but missing the bone and the vital arteries beneath.
“She was lucky,” Dr. Rossi murmured, wiping his instruments. “Two inches to the right, and it would have shattered her scapula. She needs absolute rest, antibiotics, and clean dressing twice a day.”
“Leave,” Rico commanded. He had been standing in the corner of the room the entire time, his hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles were bleached bone-white. His navy suit was splattered with Clara’s blood.
The doctor packed his bag and slipped out the door without a word, pulling it shut behind him.
Clara was propped up on her stomach, her face buried into the soft goose-down pillows. She was stripped to her waist, covered modestly by a folded white sheet that reached her armpits, her pale back exposed where the thick white gauze bandage was taped securely over her shoulder.
The mattress dipped as Rico sat down on the edge of the bed.
He picked up a warm, damp cloth from the silver basin on the nightstand. His large hands were visibly trembling as he began gently wiping away the dried, flaking blood that had run down her pale ribcage.
“You’re shaking,” Clara whispered, her voice weak, muffled by the pillow.
“I should have killed them all months ago,” Rico said, his voice flat, dead, devoid of humanity. “It was the Marcone family. A splinter faction. They thought Elena’s death was a warning shot, but they realized I wasn't falling apart. So they targeted the park. They wanted my son.”
He stopped the cloth, his thumb lingering over an uninjured patch of soft skin beneath her shoulder blade.
“You took a bullet for him, Clara. You threw yourself into the line of fire.”
Clara turned her head sideways on the pillow, looking up at him through heavy, pain-dazed eyes. “I love him, Rico. You don't calculate the cost when you love a child. You just protect them.”
Rico closed his eyes. A single, silent tear slipped through his thick eyelashes, tracking through the grime and gunpowder on his cheek. In all the years of violence, blood, and warfare, no one had ever seen Don Moretti weep.
“I failed Elena,” Rico whispered, the confession tearing out of him like broken glass. “She hated this life. She begged me to get out, to sell the territory, to take Leo to Europe. I told her we were safe. I told her no one would dare touch my family. Two days later, they put three rounds through her windshield while she was coming home from the market.”
He leaned his forehead against Clara’s uninjured shoulder, his broad shoulders shaking with silent, heaving sobs.
“I thought I was cursed,” Rico choked out. “Everything I touch bleeds. Everything I love turns to ash. When Leo stopped talking, I thought it was God punishing me for my arrogance. And then you walked into that restaurant.”
Clara reached up, ignoring the agonizing pull of her stitches, and laid her palm against Rico’s dark, stubbled cheek.
“Look at me, Rico,” she whispered.
He lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, wild with grief and guilt.
“You didn't curse this house,” Clara said firmly. “Men who deal in greed and murder did that. But you aren't just a boss, Rico. I see how you look at Leo. I see how you carry the weight of every life under this roof. You are a good father. And you deserve to be loved, too.”
Rico stared at her as if she were a miracle he had no right to witness.
Slowly, reverently, he leaned in. He cupped her jaw with both hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss wasn't gentle, but it wasn't brutal. It was desperate. It tasted of salt, tears, and an unbearable hunger that had been building between them since the first moment their eyes had met across the shattered plates at *Il Destino*. Clara parted her lips with a soft sigh, threading her fingers into his thick, dark hair, pulling him closer despite the sharp sting in her back.
Rico broke the kiss after a breathless eternity, resting his forehead against hers, their ragged breaths mingling in the quiet room.
May you like
“I will tear the Marcones out by the roots,” Rico vowed against her skin, his voice deadly calm now, reinforced with a lethal new purpose. “I will burn down every warehouse, every safehouse, and every dock they own. And when this city is quiet, Clara… I am walking away from it all. For Leo. And for you.”
***
