Rodrigo was alive. She could yell at him about his stupidity later. Staring at his battered form was like her world had righted itself.
I love him, she thought in a daze.How the fuck did this happen?
The terrifying, exhilarating truth of it no longer felt like a weakness. It felt like the only thing that could make all the violence of their world worthwhile.
34
The hot water hit Rodrigo's skin like a thousand tiny needles, a welcome agony after the grit and dried blood caking him. He braced his hands against the cool marble shower wall, head bowed, letting the steam and the pounding spray wash away the stink of smoke and blood.
His left arm throbbed where the bullet had grazed him, a fiery line etched just below his shoulder. It wasn't deep or life-threatening, but it was enough to sting like a bitch every time the water hit it.
Rodrigo cranked the water to cold, gasping as the icy shock slammed into him, chasing the last dregs of exhausted fog from his brain. The day had started too early, too much had happened, and he was disoriented when he needed to be sharp and ready.
Vincenzo and 'the Old Man' had made their move, a direct, brazen attempt to erase him from the board.
A fatal error, Rodrigo thought grimly, water dripping from his beard onto his chest. He would make damn sure they regretted it.
Shutting off the water, he grabbed a thick black towel, scrubbing roughly at his hair and body. He caught his reflection in the fogged mirror. Shadows like bruises smudged under his eyes, the angry red line of the bullet graze stark against his skin. He looked like hell and felt worse.
He rummaged in the cabinet beneath the sink, finding the well-stocked first-aid kit. Sitting on the closed toilet lid, towel wrapped around his hips, Rodrigo methodically cleaned the graze with antiseptic, smeared on a thick layer of antibiotic cream, and expertly wrapped it in a sterile bandage, securing it with medical tape.
The adrenaline was well and truly gone now, leaving a bone-deep weariness and a low hum of pain behind his eyes. He pulled on some pajama pants but didn't bother with a shirt. He needed sleep. He needed a stiff drink. He needed to look at Giana for a bit to remind himself why he was doing all of this.
Pushing the door open, he expected the room to be empty. Instead, he found Giana standing by the lit fireplace.
She had changed out of her paint-smeared clothes into dark leggings and an oversized, soft-looking sweater that swallowed her. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, shoulders rigid. Even from across the room, he could feel the tension radiating off her, a coiled spring ready to snap.
Rodrigo stopped dead. The sight of her, waiting in his space, sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the chaotic mess of feelings he had been trying to compartmentalize.
His voice came out rougher than intended. "Giana."
She whirled around. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and blazing with an emotion that stopped him cold. It was fury. Pure, incandescent rage.
"You," she spat, the single word dripping with venom. She stalked toward him, stopping a few feet away, her gaze rakingover him, taking in the bandage on his arm. "You absolute fuckingidiot."
Rodrigo blinked, momentarily thrown. He had braced for concern, maybe tears, the kind of soft worry he instinctively recoiled from. This volcanic anger was unexpected… and disturbingly attractive.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
"Leaving!" she exploded, throwing her hands up. "During a fucking lockdown! After you basically declared war on Sicily before breakfast! What were you thinking, Rodrigo? Were you thinking at all? Or is that thick skull of yours just filled with decorative rocks?" Her voice rose, sharp and brittle. "You could have been killed or dragged off by Vincenzo's goons to be tortured in some fucking basement. God, I should kill you myself."
He stared at her, the aches in his body momentarily eclipsed by the sheer force of her tirade. The fear beneath the rage was palpable, a raw edge that scraped against his own frayed nerves. He took a step toward her, his own temper starting to simmer. "Lupo needed help. It was a calculated risk."
"Calculated risk?" She let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "It was suicidal stupidity. You have people who could have gotten Lupo. Dario! Fred! Kon!Literallyanyone else whose death wouldn't…"
She choked on the words, her chest heaving, the fury momentarily faltering, revealing the stark terror beneath. "Wouldn't leave a fucking crater the size of Tuscany!"
Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, the sheen of unshed tears making her dark eyes look impossibly huge and vulnerable.
Rodrigo closed the distance between them in two strides, ignoring the protest from his grazed arm and the sway of the room. He took her by the shoulders, his hands moving to rest on her collarbones.
"Giana, look at me."
She glared up at him, defiance warring with the panic in her eyes. "Why? So you can give me some bullshit line about duty and family and calculated fucking risks? So you can tell me it's none of my business?"
"No." He held her gaze, his own dark eyes searching hers, seeing past the anger to the terrified girl beneath. A wild, impossible suspicion began to take root. "Why are you really so angry,anima mia?"
"Because you're an arrogant, reckless, controlling bastard who thinks the rules don't apply to him," she shot back, but the fire was fading, replaced by a shaky desperation. "Because you walked out of here like you were invincible and came back looking like… like…" Her voice broke.
