Alaric eases out of me, his hands steady but so damn gentle it makes my chest ache. His eyes, those green infernos, scan my face, checking for any sign of pain, but all I can do is grin, my body buzzing like I just mainlined a double shot of espresso. “Well, damn, Moretti,” I say, my voice hoarse but dripping with sass. “If I’d known you could dothatwhile I’m on bed rest, I might’ve gotten shot sooner.”
He snorts, a low, rumbling sound that’s half amusement, half exasperation, and leans down to kiss the tip of my nose—because of course he does, the big softie hiding under all that mafia boss swagger. “Don’t even joke about that,” he murmurs, his voice rough but warm, like whiskey over ice. “You pull a stunt like that again, and I’ll lock you in this room myself.”
“Promises, promises,” I tease, propping myself up on my good elbow, ignoring the dull ache in my shoulder.
He’s already moving, grabbing a warm cloth from the bathroom like it’s his personal mission to pamper me into oblivion. When he comes back, he kneels beside the bed, cleaning me up with those careful, deliberate touches that make my heart do embarrassing little somersaults. I watch him, all focused and intense, like he’s defusing a bomb instead of wiping down my thighs.
“Stop looking so serious,” I say, poking his chest with my good hand, right where his shirt’s still hanging open, showing off that unfairly chiseled torso. “I’m not gonna shatter if you crack a smile.”
He arches a brow, that sexy, infuriating smirk finally breaking through. “Serious? I’m just trying to keep up with you, trouble.” He tosses the cloth aside and climbs onto the bed, but instead of pulling me into his arms like some predictable romance novel hero, he stretches out beside me, one arm propped behind his head, the other resting lightly on my hip. “You’re the one who keeps rewriting the rules on me.”
“Me? I’m just out here living my best life, getting ravished by the hottest mob boss in town.” I wink, but my voice softens, betraying the warmth spreading through my chest. “You make it hard to stay mad at you, you know that?”
“Good,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my hip, sending little sparks across my skin. “Because I’m not letting you go, Kasi. Not after this.”
30
ALARIC
I can’t sleep.
Kasimira lies curled against my side, her breathing deep and even, her face peaceful in the moonlight streaming through our windows. Her injured shoulder is carefully positioned away from me, but her good arm rests across my chest like she’s claiming territory even in sleep.
Three hours ago, she made me forget every rule I’ve lived by for forty years. Made me forget that loving someone in my world is the most dangerous thing you can do. Made me forget that the woman sleeping beside me was once my dead son’s fiancée.
Now, in the quiet darkness, reality crashes back with the force of a freight train.
I’m in love with her.
Not just attracted, not just protective, not just grateful for her partnership. I’m completely, irrevocably, catastrophically in love with Kasimira Vale-Moretti.
The realization sits in my chest like a lead weight, pressing against my lungs until breathing becomes a conscious effort. When did it happen? When did protecting her stop being duty and start being devotion?
Maybe it was watching her handle those Russian negotiations with the grace of someone born to this life. Maybe it was her presence in my office that first night, causing trouble—anything to upset me. Perhaps it was the moment she threw herself between me and a bullet without hesitation.
Or maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was all those months ago, in a hotel room where she showed me what tenderness felt like.
Christ.
I ease myself out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. She needs rest, and I need air that doesn’t smell like her perfume, space where I can think clearly.
My study is dark except for the city lights filtering through the windows. I pour myself a glass of whiskey and settle into the leather chair that’s been my throne for decades. From here, I’ve planned wars and ordered executions.
Now I’m using it to contemplate how thoroughly a twenty-two-year-old woman has dismantled every defense I’ve spent years constructing.
The worst part isn’t the vulnerability. I’ve learned to live with fear for her safety, with the constant calculation of threats and protective measures. The worst part is the guilt.
She was Dante’s first. For two years, she lived in his house, shared his bed, and carried his name. She was supposed tomarry my son, bear his children, and build a life with the heir to my empire.
Instead, she’s here. In my bed, in my heart, in my future plans that used to include dying alone and unlamented.
What kind of man falls in love with his dead son’s woman?
The answer comes immediately, brutal in its honesty: a man who never really knew his son at all.
Because the more I learn about what Dante did to her, the more I understand that she was never really his. She was his victim, his prisoner, his entertainment. He kept her like a beautiful bird in a gilded cage, something to possess and control and eventually destroy.
I saved her from that cage. But somewhere along the way, I forgot she was supposed to fly away.
