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Gradually, I become aware of myself again, one sense at a time. The deep, bone-deep ache radiating from my left arm. The crisp Italian linen sheets tucked around me. A lingering medicinal smell hanging in the air. And delicate fingers gently threaded through mine, soft and warm.
I force my leaden eyelids to flutter open and turn my head. Clara sits perched anxiously on the edge of the bed beside me, her lovely features etched with worry. Relief sparks in her eyes when they meet mine, immediately followed by a sheen of tears.
"You're awake," she whispers, emotion cracking in her voice.
I give her hand a weak, reassuring squeeze. "Don't look so relieved just yet. I still feel like I was shot," I rasp, trying for a bit of humor.
She lets out a short, breathy laugh that ends on half a sob. Clara quickly composes herself again, dabbing at her eyes with her free hand. "I should get the doctor..."
"No, let him be for now," I say quickly, tightening my hold to keep her from leaving. The warmth of her hand in mine comforts me. "I've had worse. Stay with me a little longer."
Clara settles slowly back down on the edge of the bed but keeps her fingers laced with mine. I relish the contact, using it to anchor me. We sit in loaded silence for several long moments before she finally speaks again softly.
"You saved my life today, Antonio." Her voice is thick with emotion and she meets my gaze unwaveringly now. "I don't think I could ever repay you for that."
I give a minute shake of my head, regretting it immediately when pain flares hotly down my neck. "I'm the reason you were in danger to begin with, Clara. You were safe here until I took you out. How many times have assassins come after you before today?"
Her brows knit together in distress and she glances down at our joined hands. "But you got hurt because of me," she argues back quietly. "If something worse had happened to you..." She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, unable to continue as she fights back tears again.
"Hey..." I give her hand a gentle tug, urging her to look at me again. When she does, I pour all the sincerity I possess into my words. "This is just another day for me, Clara. I'll heal. My men will find whoever was behind the attack on the gallery and I'll handle them appropriately. You have my word." I hold her gaze unflinchingly. "But this wasn't your fault, so promise me you won't carry misplaced guilt."
A single tear escapes, trailing slowly down her cheek. Before I can think better of it, I reach up and softly wipe it away with the pad of my thumb, fingertips lingering against the silken warmth of her skin. Clara inhales a shaky little breath at my touch, but doesn't pull away.
We both go utterly still, the moment suddenly charged again. Her lips part faintly and she leans closer...
A sharp rap at the door makes us both jump. Clara moves back, releasing my hand and standing hastily as my brother Rafael strides brusquely into the room, irritation evident on his harsh features. His flinty dark eyes narrow at the sight of Clara. "I need a moment with my brother, please, Clara."
Clara glances uncertainly between us before nodding wordlessly. With one last conflicted look my way, she slips out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
Rafael takes her vacant seat. "I'm going to get to the bottom of who was behind the attack on you today, Antonio," he bites out without preamble.
I nodded tiredly. "Do what needs done, Rafael. Just be smart about it." My tone hardens. "When you find who it is, I'll handle it personally."
His dark brows rise a fraction, clearly reading the implied threat there. Rafael stands abruptly again to leave but pauses, glancing back at me. "And Antonio...about the girl. I warned you not to get distracted or soft. You were nearly killed today. I hope you finally listen now."
With that foreboding comment, Rafael sweeps from the room, leaving me alone with my troubled thoughts swirling as pain drags me under once more.
CHAPTER9
CLARA
Ashiver runs down my spine as I'm banished to my room, now more a prison cell than ever. The massive four-poster bed with intricate golden bedposts and shimmering silk sheets occupies the center of the spacious chamber. The chandelier overhead casts dancing prisms of light across the ornate Persian rug covering the hardwood floor.
This lavish bedroom could belong to royalty, making me feel even more out of place after Rafael's harsh dismissal. I'm no princess, just a pawn in their twisted games.
I pace the perimeter of the room, trailing my fingers along the brocade wallpaper, my thoughts churning in my mind. The terrifying events of the day play on repeat—the ambush at the gallery, Antonio selflessly shielding me from the flying bullets with his strong body, the ensuing bloodbath in the streets as the two warring families clashed in a violent display of the power they wield in this city.
Guilt twists my insides into knots. Was I the inadvertent catalyst for the violence? Roberto Ferraro made it clear he would be watching for me to leave the Ricci estate, thinking it a signal I had gathered valuable information to use against his enemies. But how could he expect me to uncover the Riccis' deepest secrets after only one night? Was he truly watching this mansion at all times, even now? The thought sends a chill down my spine.
And why does my heart ache so fiercely at the memory of Antonio's muscular arms wrapped around me, the feel of his hard chest pressed against my back as he whisked me away from the bullets to safety? I can still recall the earthy scent of his skin mixed with gunpowder, the steadiness in his voice as he urged me to keep my head down. He risked his life for mine without hesitation.
My footsteps falter as my gaze falls upon something new—a painting hanging in a place of prominence above the imposing bed. Not just any artwork, but the one from the gallery that arrested my attention so completely, that seemed to speak directly to me. Shock ripples through me, followed swiftly by a cascade of emotions I can't even name. There's no doubt in my mind Antonio purchased the piece and brought it here for me, though I cannot fathom how he arranged such a thing in the midst of the chaos and violence.
A flash of memory returns—Dante slipping away right after we saw the painting, already waiting by the car when the bullets started flying. He must have retrieved it per Antonio's instructions while I was distracted. Which means Antonio had been paying close attention to what caught my interest, listening while I talked about the different works. The thoughtfulness of such a gesture from a hardened mobster both surprises me and undoes something inside. Something warm blossoms in my chest, easing the weight of fear and responsibility pressing down on my shoulders.
Determination swells within me. I need to see Antonio, to thank him for the painting and for protecting my life earlier today. I want to protect my father still, but I refuse to do it by betraying everything good left inside me. I won't give that snake Roberto any damaging information about the Riccis, no matter the cost. I'll refuse to even see that monster again.
