Gia walks to the bedside and sets her tray down. I look at it. It’s a glass of something green and blended that looks like it was scraped off the bottom of a lawnmower. "What the hell is that?"
"It’s a kale and spinach booster. High in iron. Great for blood loss," Gia says, picking up the tray of pills from the nurse. "Thank you, Margaret. I’ll take over from here. Why don't you go take a break? I think Marco made some fresh cannoli in the kitchen."
The nurse doesn't need to be told twice. She disappears faster than a snitch in a concrete suit.
I glare at the green sludge. "I am not drinking that shit, Gia."
"It’s not shit. It’s nutrition. And don't you dare swear at me, Rafael. I’m the only person in this house who doesn’t want to poison your drink yet, and believe me, the temptation is growing by the hour."
She sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under her weight. She looks at me and her expression softens just a fraction. But she hides it quickly behind a mask of sassy stubbornness.
"You look like a grumpy bear that got poked with a stick," she says, holding out a pill. "Open up."
"I don't need the pills. They make my head feel like it’s full of wet cotton. I need to be sharp. I need to find the leak."
"You need to not get an infection and die of sepsis in your own bed," she counters, pushing the pill closer to my lips. "The boys are handling the leak. Matteo hasn't slept in forty-eight hours. Dante is turning over every rock in the city. You’re a Caruso, Rafael. Act like it and take your goddamn medicine."
I want to argue. I want to tell her that I’m the one who gives the orders in this house. But she’s looking at me with those wide, determined eyes, and I realize I’m a fucking goner. I open my mouth, swallow the pill, and wash it down with a sip of water she provides.
"Happy?" I growl.
"Ecstatic. Now, have your greens."
"No. Absolutely not. I’m a grown man, Gia. We don't eat grass."
"You do when you’ve lost two liters of blood protecting a 'business transaction,'" she retorts, her voice dipping into alower, more dangerous register. She brings the glass to my mouth.
I frown. "I saved your life, you owe me. That’s how the math works," I grumble.
"And I’m the one keeping you alive now. Which makes me the senior partner in this recovery. Eat."
I relinquish with a frustrated snort and take a sip. It tastes like dirt. I swallow it with a grimace. "That is the single most disgusting thing I have ever put in my mouth."
"Good. Maybe the shock will jumpstart your heart." She gives me another sip, her eyes dancing with a hidden amusement.
I watch her as I drink the sludge. The Sass. The Stubbornness. It’s a shield, I know that now. She’s terrified of what’s happening, terrified of the O’Rourkes, but she’s standing her ground. She’s the only thing in this house that isn't afraid of me, and it’s the most intoxicating thing I’ve ever experienced.
"The security," I mutter between bites. "Enzo told you about the new protocols?"
Gia’s expression sours. "You mean the four shadows that follow me every time I want to go to the kitchen? Yes. I noticed."
"It’s necessary. The yard was a setup. They knew the coordinates. They knew the time. Someone sold us out, and until I know who, you don't go near a window without a guard."
"I feel like I’m back in my father’s house," she whispers, her hand pausing with the spoon halfway to the bowl. "Locked away. Managed. A piece on a board."
Shit. I reach out with my right hand, catching her wrist. Her skin is so soft, so delicate, it makes the violence of my world feel even more obscene. "It’s not the same. Salvatore locks you up to control you. I’m locking you up to keep you safe."
"Is there?" She looks at me, her gaze searching. "Because from where I’m sitting, I’m still behind bars. The only thing that changed is the man holding the key."
I pull her closer, ignoring the spike of pain in my shoulder. "I’m not holding the key, Gia. I’m the one standing in front of the door. That’s the fucking difference."
She doesn't pull away. She leans in, her forehead resting against mine. For a second, the bickering stops and we’re just two people in a room.
"You’re a nightmare, Rafael Caruso," she breathes, her eyes dropping to my lips.
"And you're a pain in my ass," I mutter.
I pull her down, my good hand tangling in her hair. It’s not a soft kiss. It’s rough, desperate, fueled by the frustration of the last week and the raw, jagged need that hasn't left me since the shooting. She moans into my mouth, her hands finding my chest, her fingers curling into the hair there.
