“Go fuck yourself,” Rocco replies through clenched teeth.
I almost smile. Almost.
Then my phone buzzes again — Nico checking in.
Nico:
She’s still refusing to leave.
She is scared. Shaking like a leaf.
Giving her five more minutes.
I squeeze the phone so hard the screen creaks. She’s scared. Of course she is. And I should be with her. I should be holding her, keeping her close, telling her she’s safe.
But instead, I’m here—
covered in someone else’s blood, listening to the bastard tied to the chair wheeze like a dying pig.
“She’s still refusing to leave,” I mutter, staring at the screen. “He’s giving her five more minutes.”
Rocco’s head tips toward me, brow raised. “She’s still there?”
I drag a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Stubborn as hell.”
Rocco’s mouth twitches — not quite a grin, but close. “Of course she is.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What does that mean?”
He shrugs, wincing when the guy adds another stitch. “Boss, you married a woman who walked straight into a warehouse full of crates on her first day here and didn’t blink when you called a man a liar. She survived the whole day shopping with your cousin. She stayed behind at the restaurant because she didn’t want to leave without you.” He shakes his head, impressed. “Yeah. She’s stubborn.”
I stare at him. I want to be annoyed. But underneath that, dangerously warm, is something like pride.
“Still,” I say, pacing the length of the cement floor, “she should’ve left. I told her to let Nico take her home.”
Rocco snorts. “With respect, Boss? She’s not listening to Nico.”
“Clearly.”
“She’s waiting for you.” The words stop me cold. Rocco meets my eyes — steady, sincere. “She’s scared for you. That’s why she won’t leave.”
My chest tightens.
“I’m sending you back as soon as you’re stitched,” I say, forcing control into my voice. “I want her home. Safe.”
Rocco nods. “I’ll take her myself.”
“She’s probably shaking,” I mutter, jaw clenching. “Worried. Alone.”
Rocco huffs. “You’re really in it, huh?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly turning his head to the guy stitching him up. “Hurry the fuck up.”
The guy rolls his eyes but finishes the last stitch and slaps a bandage over the wound.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare down at my shirt—dark red splattered everywhere, streaked down my forearms, dried under my nails. Even my pants are ruined.
