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“Maybe they forgot but to be honest, you probably don't want them thinking we're related now.” He glances between our naked chests as he forces his body closer.
Rolling my eyes, I sigh, setting my chin on top of his head, and he buries his face into my neck. Instead of being weird or wrong, it feels more right than anything has in a while and I can't explain why. Maybe because I haven't been able to relax this way with another person since I lost my wife.
“Time for you to stop talking and to start sleeping, pequeño.”
He releases a warm breath against my chest. “I'm not that little, you know.”
I smile into his hair. “You're not that big either.”
His chuckles turn to soft hums before he's completely silent beside me. His heartbeat steadies against mine and his breathing evens out. Yeah, we can worry about everything else when we both have the energy, including why it feels so good to hold my godson in my arms.
One
Enrico
Oneyearlater
I lie between crumpled sheets, staring at the empty space my hand would normally fill. Tears hang at the corners of my eyes, due to more than the throbbing aches spreading throughout my body. I didn't need another reason for my father to see me as weak and broken. I've spent so much of my life in hospitals and doctors’ offices with him sitting across from me with pity and sorrow in his eyes. Was it for me or himself?
Drip. Drip. Drip.
My focus shifts to the IV pump sitting beside me, the bag half empty as more fluid slowly pumps through my veins. I grab at my throat, the dryness causing the throbbing to worsen.
The door cracks open and instead of seeing my father appear in the doorway, it's Fernando. The man is so many things to me other than what I want him to be. My godfather, my dad's best friend, my constant protector, and a business partner.
None of those titles will ever lead him to my bed. At least they shouldn't.
It doesn’t stop me from craving him.
His heavy brown eyes study me as he closes the door and walks closer. “How are you doing, little one?” His face is so tense and hard to read but also breathtaking.
He isn't classically handsome and doesn't resemble the kind of guy placed on the cover of magazines but his features are unique, rugged, and the scars scattered along his cheek and chin add this edge that shakes most people to their core. All it does is make me want to run my fingers over each one, replacing the pain they once brought with the soft, comforting touches he sometimes offers me.
He has a bad, scary side only reserved for the wrong people. If he doesn't ever aim it toward me, does that make me the right one?
Doubtful. What the fuck do I think this is, a Cinderella love story? Maybe if my last ride from a party turned into a pumpkin instead of the trunk of a car and I lost a shoe instead of my fucking hand. You'd think I grew up on fairy-tale books and the promises of finding love, not learning how to torture men for information.
“I'm alive.”
He nods, forcing a smile on his face. He places a tall glass of water with a straw on the nightstand beside me. “I brought you some water.”
“Thanks.” I try to reach for it with the wrong hand at first. It's going to be a while before I get used to only having one. Swallowing down my aggravation, I reach over with my left hand, struggling to go so far. He lifts the glass and hands it to me. “I can place everything on the other nightstand if it makes things easier for you.”
I glare his way, taking a slow sip. “Sure. Then you can also walk and talk for me too. I'll manage fine without you treating me like a damn baby.”
He lifts his hands in the air and his eyes soften. “I only want to help. You nearly died a few days ago. It's good to see your eyes open again and to hear you already fighting with me though.”
He means it's good to see me today. All the times my father made him track me down to force me to attend important family events, he looked displeased and like I was a problem he dreamt about getting rid of. I’m not always easy to deal with and one of the many things I have in common with my father is I'm a stubborn, hardheaded shit. I'm also good at what I do. I’m often in charge of negotiating and interrogating. No one else is as efficient as I am when it comes to getting men to talk, and everyone here knows it.
It doesn’t matter. None of it ever does. I can manipulate and kill thousands of men with my bare hands, and everyone will still handle me with kid gloves. All except for this man, taking up too much space in the room. He’s the only one who doesn’t go easy on me and never has issues putting me in my place. He looks at me as he does everyone else, and even though it sometimes pains me, it’s also a relief. He sees me for the person I am, not for the autoimmune disease I fight daily.
I look away, counting cracks in the ceiling. “Why? I would have been one less thing you'd have to worry about, and trust me, this isn't me fighting. Just give it time.”
“Then how else would I get away from your father's boring meetings? And lucky for you I have plenty of time to wait for you to be your full fighting self again these next few days.”
The legs of a chair scrape against the wood floor and when I face him again, he's sitting down next to me. He reaches for my arm, setting his hand above my wrist. The warmth and weight relax me. His thumb lightly brushes over the bandage hiding my post amputated hand. “This doesn't make you any less than who you were before. You're still strong and capable just as much as everyone else.”
The man is fucking delusional. Hot as hell but also living in a fantasy world. “You don't know that. It's easy to say all those things when you're not the one lying in this bed.”
