Not when I’m the last willing heir to this cursed family name.
But I also know how important it is to reclaim this territory in my own right.
We lost it to the Tanakas, and nothing short of a personal appearance from the new Mafia Don is going to make people believe that the Chiaroscuros are still alive—that we’re still a force to be reckoned with.
As the car pulls to a stop in the driveway, it takes more than a little effort and a good amount of blood on the leather seats to get me out of the car and up the steps to Evi’s waiting medical aid.
She clucks at me like a mother hen as she guides me onto a leather chair in the cigar room and sets out her fully stocked first aid kit she always keeps close at hand nowadays.
As Sandro pours me a shot of whiskey, his wife stitches me up with steady hands, her sutures neat and precise, her fingers impressively gentle.
I don’t mind the needle’s sting as she works, and I barely register the pain after downing a couple of shots.
Then the cigar room door swings open with astonishing force.
Aisling rushes in, worry etched across her face. “What happened?” she demands, eyes locking onto my arm. “My brothers said you were attacked at a butcher shop.”
I study my fake wife’s expression, at the concern etched across her delicate features, the way her fine brows are pressed into a deep frown, and something warm and dangerous curls in my chest.
She’s not even trying to hide her distress.
She must be really upset, and the realization fills me with far more satisfaction than it should.
I like that she’s worried about me.
“Easy,focosa,” I say lightly. “It’s just a scratch.”
Her glare sharpens as she leans over Evi to try forming her own assessment. “Are you crazy? You’ve left a trail of blood from here to the front door! I could find you without even trying!”
I grin rakishly. “Scared I’ll bleed out, Wifey?”
Aisling’s cheeks darken to an alluring shade of rose as her eyes snap up to mine. I know she’s regretting her momentary lapse in composure and wishing that I would go easy on her for it, but God, I just can’t help myself. I love to tease her.
“I’m touched,” I say, pressing my glass of whiskey to my chest.
23
AISLING
Mortification burns hotter than any fear I felt for Raf’s safety as I realize just how carelessly I tipped my hand.
His grin is slow and devastating, like he’s savoring every second of my exposed concern as he studies my face with mild amusement.
It’s too late to play it off now. I was so worried Raf’s life might genuinely be in danger, I hadn’t wasted a second thought on maintaining my mask of cool indifference or stopped to consider the ramifications of showing my true emotions.
And now he’s seen just how much I care.
With a knowing glance in my direction, Evi finishes tying off the final suture and gives a satisfied hum. Then she gently applies gauze over his forearm. “There,” she says briskly. “You’re lucky it was a clean cut. It should heal fast as long as you don’t reopen it. No heavy lifting,” she warns, leveling a slender finger in his direction.
Raf raises a brow. “Heavy lifting? I wouldn’t dream of it. That’s what Sandro’s for.”
Raf’s twin snorts from behind him, his muscle-bound arms crossing over his chest.
Evi just smiles and shakes her head as she gathers her medical kit and stands.
Her gaze flicks between us with open amusement. “Try to keep him out of trouble,” she tells me lightly, like I might have any sway over what Raf does.
I roll my eyes. “He’s a grown man. If he wants to be an idiot, who am I to stop him?”