Isabella makes a sound, half laugh, half sob. “You will die for this,” she spits.
Giovanni’s eyes cut to her, cold. “No,” he replies. “But a Bellandi will. What you need to decide is if you want that to be you. Or your father.”
I exhale slowly.
Enough.
I turn to my husband. “We’re done for now,” I tell Isabella. “Compose yourself. You will be useful again soon.”
Giovanni’s hand tightens slightly at my waist.
And then, because I cannot help it, because he’s injured and infuriating and still mine, I turn deeper into him, slide my arm around his waist as we leave.
“You are going back to bed.”
His mouth curves. “Understood, Donna. I might even rest,” he says, “but only if you are there.”
I glare. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “owe me anothermaritu.”
Heat rises in my face. “Do not get smug. And no way in hell I’m doing that… that balls-deep thing while you’re still injured.”
“I’m a wounded patient. I believe that entitles me to whatever I want,” he replies softly.
Back in the bedroom, I help him settle despite his protests, despite the way he tries to pretend pain is irrelevant.
He watches me with something unguarded.
Pride.
Concern.
A hunger that is not only physical.
When I shower and climb into bed beside him, he pulls me close with careful strength, his breath warm against my hair.
“You scared me,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His hand stills.
“I know,” he says quietly. “But I also made a promise to you that I will never leave you. So no harm, no foul, si?”
I huff softly. “I hate you.”
“No,” he replies, voice low, “you do not.”
My mouth tightens, but exhaustion drags at me, heavy and relentless.
Sleep comes slowly but inevitably.
Giovanni’s body remains warm, solid beside me, awake even as I drift, his mind already moving pieces across the board.
I know he’s planning.
Waiting.
And I let him. Because we’re partners now.
