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“Looks like it.” I blow my nose in the tissue. “Shame. I quite enjoy your one-word monologues.”
He grunts. The man fucking grunts at me.
“Sorry, I don’t speak that specific dialect. Can you try again?”
This time, I get a sideways stare, then he looks back toward the road.
“Does my presence suddenly bother you, Alessandro?”
I hear the squeak of the leather as he tightens his hold on the steering wheel. The moment is brief before the tendons on the backs of his rugged hands relax. I swear to God, I don’t understand this man. I shake my head and focus on the buildings we’re passing by. We’re almost at the hospital.
“You shouldn’t have shot Rocco,” I say. Maybe Alessandro is worried that the don will learn of what he’s done? Punish him for it? Blame me? “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did. But it’s obvious you’re regretting it now. Why else would you act like—”
The car suddenly swerves to the right, and I scream and grab the door handle like my life depends on it. I squeeze my eyes shut as we barrel toward the streetlight. I assume we missed it because the SUV comes to a screeching halt a split second later. The car door slams, and I’m left in silence.
Tentatively, I open my eyes and watch Alessandro as he walks past the car, stopping several feet ahead on the sidewalk. The biting wind seems to have little effect on him even though he’s not wearing a coat. It still lies on the vehicle’s backseat, just where he threw it when I chose to sit at the front.
He turns partway, not quite toward me but enough that I catch his fleeting glance, and throws his head back, facing the sky. What's he doing? Seeking help from above? With his hands on his hips, the restlessness wafting off him is nearly palpable. I watch as he finally drops his head forward, chin nearly hitting his chest. He slowly shakes it side to side, and I have a distinct impression that an internal struggle just went on within him.
Finally, he looks at me through the windshield, our eyes catch and hold. His seem to burn as he strides toward me, his gaze unbreaking. The closer he gets, the faster he moves. A predator with prey in sight.
Approaching my side, he grips the handle and opens the door with a forceful yank. The air cracks as he leans inside, his muscled bulk invading my space. The look in his eyes is positively feral, like he wants to annihilate me on the spot.
“This is why,” he grits out through his teeth and, grabbing the back of my neck, slams his mouth to mine.
I don’t breathe. I can’t! It seems like even my heart has stopped beating through these fractured seconds while his lips stay pressed to my own. Before I have time to process or react, Alessandro releases his hold and abruptly pulls away.
“Fuck!” he barks, hits the roof of the car with his fist, and slams the door shut.
No longer still, my heart is thumping through my ribcage as I watch him walk around the front of the SUV and get back behind the wheel. He puts the car in drive and pulls onto the street. Lips pressed tight, and eyes glued to the gray concrete ribbon beyond the windshield, he won’t even look at me now. I, on the other hand, can’t make myself look away from his gruff profile.
I don’t think a kiss has ever shaken me so much, especially one so swift. Or so angry. I’d only had two boyfriends before I married Rocco, but neither made me feel like Alessandro’s all-too-brief kiss had done. God, I want him to kiss me again.
I dreamed about him again last night. I’ve come to crave these nightly visions. This time, I was on top, riding his cock as his hands moved over my stomach and breasts, and up to my throat. That should have frightened me—his hands wrapped around my neck. Rocco often holds me down when he forces himself on me. He likes to remind me of his power. But even in the dream, Alessandro’s fingers at my throat didn’t faze me. My subconsciousness knew I could trust him. I came so hard, that when I woke up, my pussy still trembled at the thought.
What happens now? I press my thighs together, helpless to stop the clench inside my core.
Alessandro parks in the hospital lot and walks around the front of the SUV to open the door for me. His stance is rigid, gaze focused somewhere across the sea of cars. I exit the vehicle and head toward the visitor’s entrance, while he follows a few paces behind.
***
I stare at the white door at the end of the hospital hallway. I don’t need to be directed to my husband’s room. There’s only one door with a guard on either side of it. I’ve been fixated on that door for what seems like hours while standing in the waiting room, but I know it couldn’t have been more than just a few minutes.
“Please, stay here,” I say to Alessandro without turning around, then head down the hall.
When I enter the room, I find Rocco lying in bed, head raised to allow him more comfort. The wall-mounted TV on the opposite side is showing the news. The monitor beside the bed tracks his vitals—heartbeat, blood pressure—giving off a steady beep once in a while. His right hand is hidden from view, wrapped in a thick layer of bandages.
“It’s still there. For now.”
I tense upon hearing Rocco’s voice and make myself look at him.
“It was those Serbian bastards. Can’t be anyone else,” he continues. “But they will be dealt with soon enough. I’ve made arrangements for some of my guys to hit that club of theirs and kill everyone there.”
“The don won’t like you acting without his approval,” I say. The head of our Family is very strict on how things are handled.
“One of them almost shot off my damn hand!” he snarls. “The doctor said they’re going to keep me here for three weeks at least. Three weeks!”
I can feel the pressure in my chest ease off ever so slightly. Almost a month without him.
