“Shh, don’t look, Panini,” he says gently as he puts one arm under my legs and the other behind my back, lifting me easily. “We’re going into the sitting room, okay?”
As he eases me down onto the couch, Caterina comes barreling in. “Uncle Roberto said to bring a med-kit. What happened?” She catches sight of me. “Oh, my God, Elena. What the hell happened?”
She looks around and sees the same lump at the foot of the bed and goes pale.
“Close the door, sweetheart,” Luca says.
He shifts down, palms warm and sure as he lifts the hem of my robe just enough to see. The skin around my right ankle is already swelling, the bone beneath is angry and shapeless.
He curses ripely. “If that son of a bitch wasn’t dead already…” He stops and takes a few deep breaths, trying to battle his rising anger.
“I’m okay, Luca. I promise,” I say and pull him close, needing his touch more than ever.
He nods once, jaw tight, and forces his focus back to me. His fingers are gentle as he presses along the bone, mapping my pain with feather-light touches. “Tell me where it’s worst.”
“My ankle,” I manage. “My face. He hit me.”
“I’m going to kill everyone he’s ever met,” Luca vows, but his touch stays light. The calm of his actions is at war with the fury in his eyes.
He glances up my shin and winces at the raw stripes where the rug took skin. “Burns,” he murmurs, more to himself. “We’ll clean and dress them.
He sets my ankle down on a throw pillow and reaches for my hands. He flips them over, palm to palm, scraped heels, a crescent of broken skin where a ring cut me, the faint tremor I can’t stop. He kisses the inside of one wrist before he lets go, fast, like he can’t help it.
“Cheek,” Caterina says softly, hovering near the door, face white. “She’s swelling.”
“I’m afraid we need the doctor for this one,” he says. “Probably need to run some tests.”
He lifts my chin with two knuckles. Even that light contact stings. I can feel the puff around my cheekbone blooming by the second. “Any double vision?” he asks, eyes flicking back and forth. “Headache? Nausea?”
“Headache, yes. Not the rest.” My voice is steadier now; the breathing helped.
He touches the corner of my mouth where it split. “We’ll ice it.” He swallows something raw and looks at my throat and collarbones. Fingerprints are waking up there, ugly and purple. His breath leaves him in a low curse he doesn’t quite let out.
“I’m okay,” I say again, useless as a spell, but I need to say it. “I’m okay.”
“I left for two minutes. Two fucking minutes,” he says. “What was I thinking?”
He moves to stand, but I don’t want him to. I wrap my fingers around his wrist.
“You didn’t know,” I say.
“I should’ve,” he says harshly. “Because of me, you…”
He runs his fingers gently over my cheek.
“No, because of Gabe Russo and that bastard Akers. This is not your fault, Luca,” I say firmly. “I know it won’t stop you from blaming yourself, but you need to know that I don’t blame you for any of this.”
He looks me in the eye for a moment, then turns away to continue inspecting my skin.
Tell me,” he says. It’s not a demand; it’s a plea. “From the beginning.”
I close my eyes to see it properly. “I don’t know what woke me up. It was too quiet, I guess. I tried to turn on the lamp, then I heard shouting somewhere. I got up to get my robe and find you. Then the door… opened. So quietly I almost thought I imagined it.” I pull a breath. “I called for you. No answer.”
His throat works. He nods for me to go on.
“I went for the closet. I thought— If I could buy time, wedge the door.” I swallow and shake my head. “He moves fast for sucha big fucker. I saw his scar, and I remembered the picture you showed me earlier.”
“Gabe,” Luca says, flat with hatred.
