Chapter 4: Blood in His Shirt
939 Words
It happened at 11:47 PM.
I was in bed. Or trying to be. The Romano house was too quiet to sleep in.
Then: shouting. Glass breaking. Footsteps running.
I sat up so fast the blanket fell. My heart was in my throat.
The door to my room flew open. No knock. No Elena.
Antonio. One of Luca’s men. Gun in hand. Eyes wild.
“Miss Moretti. Come. Now.”
Defiant first. “Why?”
“Because he’s bleeding.”
Scared came second.
I didn’t ask who. I already knew.
I ran. Barefoot. In one of Elena’s old nightgowns she’d left for me. Down the hall, down the stairs.
The study was chaos. Two men holding another man against the wall. Broken vase on the floor. And Luca.
Luca on his knees. One hand pressed to his side. Blood. A lot of it. Dark on his white shirt.
He looked up when I entered.
Gray eyes. No pain in them. Just… annoyance. Like I’d interrupted him.
“Get her out,” he said. His voice was rough. “Now.”
“Mr. Romano’s been shot,” Antonio said behind me. “Grazed. But he won’t let the doctor touch him until the house is secure.”
“i***t,” I whispered. Not at Antonio. At him.
Luca’s gaze snapped to mine. “Language.”
I should’ve listened. I should’ve run.
Soft won.
“Move,” I snapped at the two men. They did.
I dropped to my knees in front of him. Ignoring the blood on the marble. Ignoring the guns. Ignoring everything except the red spreading on his shirt.
“Let me see,” I said.
“No.”
“Yes.” I met his eyes. Defiant. Scared. But not moving. “You told me rule four. You don’t hurt me. Fine. Don’t make me watch you bleed out because of pride.”
Something flickered in his face. Surprise?
“Antonio,” he said without looking away from me. “The kit. And leave us.”
Everyone left. The door closed.
Alone. With a bleeding Mafia King.
He let me pull his hand away. The wound was on his side, just under his ribs. Not deep. But deep enough. Blood, torn shirt, skin.
I’d never seen a gunshot before. My hands shook.
“Steady,” he said. “Breathe.”
“Shut up,” I hissed, tearing the shirt more to see. “You’re not the one bleeding.”
A ghost of a laugh. Cut short by pain. “Feisty.”
“Quiet.” I found the medical kit. Antiseptic. Gauze. Stitches. God.
I cleaned it. My fingers brushed his skin. Hot. Tense. He didn’t flinch. He just watched me.
Like I was the danger now.
“You should let a doctor do this,” he said.
“I am a doctor.” Lie. “I’ve… painted wounds before.” Also a lie. But I’d watched enough YouTube at 2 AM to know clean, press, stitch.
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.” My voice broke. “So stop talking and let me save you, you stubborn—”
“Careful,” he murmured.
I looked up. We were inches apart. His blood on my hands. His eyes on my mouth.
For a second, neither of us breathed.
Then I threaded the needle.
He didn’t make a sound when I stitched. Not one. But his jaw clenched. And his hand came up.
Not to stop me. To hold my wrist. Gentle. To steady me.
“Don’t shake,” he said quietly. “You’re doing good.”
I finished. Bandaged him. My hands were red. My nightgown was ruined.
I sat back on my heels. “Done.”
He looked down at the neat bandage. Then at me.
“You stayed,” he said. Like he was confused by it.
“Obviously.” I wiped my hands on my gown. “You’re my collateral. If you die, I’m still in debt.”
Lie.
He knew it was a lie.
“Thank you, Aria.”
Three words. Soft. No ‘Miss Moretti’. No ‘collateral’.
Just my name.
I didn’t know what to do with that. So I stood. Too fast. My head spun.
His hand shot out. Caught my wrist again. This time to stop me from falling.
“Easy.” He pulled me down. Not to the floor. To the couch beside him.
I should’ve pulled away.
I didn’t.
We sat there. Him bleeding. Me shaking. Both of us quiet.
“You could’ve run,” he said after a minute. “When Antonio opened the door. No one was watching you.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I looked at him. Really looked. The blood. The sweat. The guard down.
“Because you said you wouldn’t hurt me,” I whispered. “And I believed you.”
His thumb brushed over my wrist once. Barely a touch.
Crack.
Big one.
“45 hours,” he said. “Your father.”
“I know.”
“If he doesn’t come…”
“I know.”
He nodded. Once. “Then I owe you.”
“For what?”
“For not running.”
He let go of my wrist. Stood. Slow. Pain on his face for the first time.
“Elena will take you back to your room,” he said. “Get some sleep, Aria.”
He walked to the door. Stopped.
Without turning, he said: “The library is yours. Anytime. No escort.”
Then he was gone.
I sat on the couch. Blood on my hands. His blood.
And the door stayed open
- Writer
