"He’s stable," Santoro announces, dropping the gloves into a biohazard bag. "The fever will likely spike as his body fights off the trauma, and the pain will be excruciating when the anesthesia wears off. He needs absolute bed rest. If he tears those internal stitches, we’re back to square one."
"He won't move," I promise fiercely. "I’ll make sure of it."
The next three days blur into an exhausting, surreal nightmare of rubbing alcohol, blood-pressure cuffs, and whispered prayers in the dark.
Cassio is a terrible patient.
When the anesthesia wears off and the fever takes hold, he is delirious, violent, and paranoid. He thrashes against the sheets, growling at the nurses Matteo brought in, completely convinced he is still in the middle of a warzone. He nearly breaks a medic's wrist when the man tries to change his IV bag.
The only thing that calms him is me.
"Get out," I order the terrified nurse on the second night, taking the damp washcloth from her trembling hands. "I’ll do it."
I wait for the door to click shut before turning back to the bed. Cassio is tossing his head side to side, his skin is slick with a feverish sweat, his dark eyes are glazed and unseeing. He is mumbling in rapid, breathless Italian, threats, orders, and then, my name.
"I'm here," I whisper, climbing onto the edge of the mattress.
I press the cool washcloth to his burning forehead. Instantly, his thrashing stops. His chest heaves, his healthy left hand blindly reaching out until his fingers tangle in the fabric of my sweatpants. He grips me with a desperate, bruising force, anchoring himself to reality.
I spend hours washing him. I carefully wipe the sweat from his neck, his arm, and his stomach, meticulously avoiding the thick white bandages wrapping his right shoulder and chest.
I am a wife, desperately nursing the man she loves back from the brink of the abyss.
On the fourth day, the fever finally breaks.
I am sitting in the leather armchair I dragged to the side of the bed, a lukewarm cup of coffee in my hands, staring blankly at the wall. The penthouse is quiet, the storm outside having finally passed.
"You look like shit,moglie."
The voice is weak, a gravelly, exhausted rasp, but it is entirely lucid.
My head snaps up. Cassio’s black eyes are open. They are heavy with pain and painkillers, but the feverish glaze is gone. He is looking at me, his gaze tracking over my messy hair, the dark circles under my eyes, and the oversized t-shirt I’ve been sleeping in.
"You got shot," I breathe, setting the coffee cup down with a clatter. I lean forward, burying my face in the mattress near his hip, a fresh wave of overwhelming relief crashing over me. "You stupid, arrogant, terrifying bastard. You got shot."
Cassio lets out a low, breathy chuckle that ends in a harsh wince. "Don't make me laugh. It feels like someone parked a Mack truck on my chest."
I sit up, gently taking his left hand in mine, pressing his knuckles to my lips. "Santoro said you tore a venous branch. You lost so much blood, Cassio. You were gonna die."
"I remember," he murmurs, his dark eyes never leaving my face. His thumb weakly strokes the side of my cheek. "I remember the glass. I remember putting you on the floor. And I remember waking up to you ripping my shirt open like a goddamn Valkyrie."
"I was terrified," I admit, my voice cracking. I don't try to hide the tears. "I thought you were going to leave me alone in this house."
Cassio’s expression softens. He shifts his weight slightly, gritting his teeth against the pain, and pulls my hand until I am forced to stand up and carefully sit on the very edge of the bed beside him.
"I told you,” He whispers. "I am not going anywhere. The Devil himself couldn't drag me out of this world while you’re still in it."
He reaches up, his large hand cupping the back of my neck. He pulls me down slowly, mindful of his chest, until his lips meet mine.
It is a slow, tender kiss. I kiss him back softly, tasting the lingering bitterness of the medication on his tongue, but it is the sweetest thing I have ever experienced.
When I pull back, resting my forehead against his, we are both breathing a little faster.
"We need to talk," I whisper, my eyes searching his.
"About the Bratva?" he asks, a dark, murderous edge creeping back into his tone.
"About us," I correct.