Days passed.
The new safe house—hidden deep in the industrial outskirts of Milan, a fortress built from steel, concrete, and paranoia—had become a warren of tension, secrets, and one very annoying patient.
Marco Bellanti was healing.
And that was a problem.
Because a wounded Marco was dangerous.
A healed Marco?
Unbearable.
Elena had taken on the role of caretaker with grim determination—changing bandages, administering painkillers, forcing food down his throat like he was a disobedient child. But Marco repaid her kindness the only way he knew how: by being an insufferable, grinning, shameless i***t.
“You look tired, bella,” he’d say, eyes closed, voice dripping with fake concern. “Why don’t you lie down with me? I’ll keep you warm. I know you will love it!”
She’d slap him.
Again.
