Made & Marked By The Mafia

[Two]

SIENNA

A groan slipped from his lips the second we made it through my front door, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the knife wound or the way his eyes scanned my apartment like it personally offended him.

Not that I blamed him. My place wasn’t exactly featured in Architectural Digest. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners, the couch had definitely seen better days—and the lighting? Moody, in a depressing sort of way.

I had half a mind to let go of him right there, watch him slide to the floor and toss out a sarcastic, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

But for some reason—probably one I’d regret in about thirty minutes—I didn’t.

Instead, I tightened my arm around his back and helped him the rest of the way to the couch. He moved slow, careful, like every step was a test of how much pain he could stomach. Once he sat down, he lifted his legs one at a time, grimacing.

“Stay there,” I said, breathless. “Don’t move.”

I took off toward the bathroom like a woman on a mission.

It took me a second to find the first-aid kit. It was wedged behind a box of tampons and a bottle of shampoo I’d never opened. I hadn’t touched the kit in over a year—not since I slipped on the stairs after a night out, tried to save my takeout, and lost both my pride and half a toenail.

Still, I’d kept it stocked. Bandaids, gauze, disinfectant… and thank God for that.

When I got back to the living room, he was exactly where I left him.

But his eyes were open now—watching me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t decided whether to solve or set on fire.

I dropped to my knees in front of him, trying to ignore the way those intense eyes made it harder to breathe. “I need to see the wound.”

He didn’t say a word. Just slowly started unbuttoning his shirt. Every movement looked like it cost him. His fingers were slick with blood, his knuckles white with effort.

When he struggled with the last few, I stepped in and peeled the fabric back myself.

And then I saw it.

Just below his ribs—red, raw, and deep. A knife wound, ugly and deliberate. This wasn’t a mugging gone wrong or a bar fight. Someone had meant to put him down.

My stomach twisted.

“I…” I swallowed. “This is bad. You need a doctor. An actual one. Like, with credentials and a license and sterile gloves.”

“No doctors. No hospitals.” His voice was low, rough with pain. His skin was damp, sheen with sweat. But his jaw locked tight like he was hanging on with nothing but willpower and spite.

I dabbed at the wound with cotton, trying to slow the bleeding. “Okay, listen, mister... whoever you are—I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a med student. I once got lightheaded during a flu shot. This is way out of my league.”

“It’s not that difficult,” he said between shallow breaths.

“And if I do help, you’ll probably end up with an infection and die slowly.”

He closed his eyes for a second. His nostrils flared with each labored breath.

“YouTube,” he muttered.

I blinked. “Come again?”

He opened his eyes—steel grey and sharp despite the pain—and nodded toward my phone on the table. “YouTube. How to treat knife wounds. Use that. I’ll tell you the rest.”

I stared at him. “You want me to treat a stab wound by watching tutorial videos?”

He gave a slow, deliberate nod. “It’s better than bleeding out.”

I blinked again. Honestly, I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed by the level of crazy or deeply concerned that I was the one kneeling on the floor seriously considering this.

I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You’re either incredibly brave… or just totally out of your damn mind.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth but he did not say another word.

I shook my head, grabbed my phone, and opened YouTube. “If you die, I’m deleting my browser history. Just so we’re clear.”

There was something about his presence that made me listen.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself, like someone used to being obeyed. Or maybe it was the low growl in his voice when he barked, “Get to it… now.”

Whatever the reason, I grabbed my phone like it had offended him personally.

I typed in the most ridiculous thing: how to treat a stab wound at home. The videos I pulled up were equal parts terrifying and infuriating. Every single one of them started with: Please consult a licensed medical professional.

Yeah, thanks, YouTube. That would’ve been my first choice too.

But here we were. There was a bleeding man on my couch, and I was treating him with shaky hands and questionable Wi-Fi.

So I did what I could, as per instructions. Cleaned the wound with disinfectant. Bandaged it with gauze I hadn’t touched since my last breakup-induced clumsiness. It took longer than I expected. Mostly because I kept getting distracted.

He didn’t scream, didn’t even flinch. Just lay there, breathing through the pain, like he’d trained for this moment. And meanwhile, I was losing my mind a little.

Because up close—really up close—he didn’t look like someone who belonged in an alley, bleeding out. He looked like a damn Greek statue. Broad chest, carved abs, skin that hinted at golden summers, and expensive cologne. Something warm and musky and woody.

And completely insane, apparently.

Still, even while I worked, part of my brain started wondering stupid things—like who stabs a man who looks like that?

The other part? The rational part, was screaming.

He could be a criminal. He probably was a criminal. Why else avoid a hospital like it was laced with arsenic? He was running from the cops, maybe, or from something worse.

And what was I doing?

I was harboring him, treating his wounds in my crappy apartment with one lock and a sad excuse for a fire extinguisher.

“I should’ve just dumped you in that alley,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

“Why didn’t you?” he asked, staring at me. His voice was gravelly, dragging against the rough surface with a deep baritone. It was the kind of voice that shouldn't still sound sexy when the man was actively bleeding onto my couch blanket.

Shaken, I looked up. He was watching me with an unreadable expression.

“I’m an i***t,” I hesitated. “In case that wasn’t already crystal clear.”

I dropped the bloody cotton balls into the trash and tried not to think about how insane this all was. He didn’t say anything after that. Just kept staring like he was waiting for something else.

“You need painkillers,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag that was way past its expiration date. “I’ll run down to the pharmacy. It’s two blocks away.”

He was silent for a beat. Then another.

And then came the faintest mumble. I couldn’t even make it out at first.

“What?” I leaned in a little.

He repeated himself—some half-slurred drug name that sounded more like a spell than something from the pain relief aisle.

“There’s money,” he added after a pause, “in my jacket. Left pocket.”

I didn’t even hesitate. I reached toward the coat draped on the armrest, slid my hand into the left pocket... and froze. There were several crisp bills of hundreds. It was the kind of money I had not seen in years.

“Jesus. How many organs did you sell for this?”

He, of course, did not answer. I glanced at him, but his eyes were closed now. His breathing was slower, or maybe he’d passed out.

Maybe he was just pretending so he didn’t have to explain why he was walking around like a bleeding Bond villain with enough cash in his jacket to pay my rent for the next six months.

Either way, I tucked the money into my jeans, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the door.

And as I left, I couldn’t stop myself from glancing back at him one more time.

Still. Silent. Beautiful.

And if I wasn’t careful... a hell of a lot more dangerous than the wound he came in with.