The steady, unrelenting drumming of the midnight downpour against the corrugated iron roof was the only sound slicing through the suffocating quiet of the warehouse.
Inside the black-market medical vault, the swinging surgical bulb cast a harsh, stagnant glow over Dante’s chest. The deep, heavy-duty sutures Elena had woven into his pale skin remained intact, rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic cadence that signaled the volatile Don was finally resting in a deep, post-trauma sleep.
Elena stood over the stainless-steel table for a long, quiet moment, her hands trembling as she wiped a streak of his dark, drying crimson onto a sterile towel. The raw, high-friction heat that had charged the air while he held her against his bare torso still lingered in her veins like a low-voltage current
