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Then the elevator slides open, and whatever lingering dangers I imagined vanish. It's like I can breathe again.
Thank God.
Nico really needs to stop being covered in blood all the time because the gore barely fazes me when he steps out of the elevator—until I realize it'shisblood all over his fists, face, and clothes this time.
Relief and worry flood me simultaneously, and they don't pair well. I hurry to his side, ignoring the sharp throbs in my ankle when I leave my crutches behind. He notices this and begins to protest, expression dark and stormy, but I tug on his arm until he takes a seat.
Nico immediately tries to pull me down beside him. I smack at his hand and grab his chin, obviously startling him with my anxious anger that's been stewing in tense silence for the last several minutes.
"Hell, no. I'm not going to cuddle up next to you on the couch when you're a bloody mess, and you don't get to coddle my stupid ankle right now. So, keep your ass right where it is."
He blinks and proceeds to watch me as I somewhat pathetically hobble to the kitchen, rummaging for supplies. Luckily, I figured out where he keeps a large store of bandages and medicine a few days ago. It makes sense why he has so much First Aid readily available, considering his family's line of work. I grab an armful of everything I need and sit beside him again.
Nico watches me until his brow furrows. He reaches for the small nick in my arm, where the glass pricked it earlier. Before he can touch me, I grab his hand and glower at his bloodied knuckles. I'd noticed the scar tissue there long ago and figured it must be from fights like this, but it still vexes me.
"Your lifestyle is fucking stupid, you know that?" I growl as I begin doctoring up his hands as best I can.
He doesn't even flinch when I dab at the broken skin with rubbing alcohol to clean it. When I check his face, he's simply examining me. I make quick work of his hands and then clean up the blood on his chin and neck, grimacing at the bruise already forming on one of his cheekbones. At least his nose isn't broken.
I begin dabbing a scrape on his jaw, muttering, "Grab that ice and press it against your cheek before your face swells up like a balloon."
"You're trembling."
"I'mfine,"I snap, glaring at him again.
But he's entirely too close, and the teal warmth in his eyes is nothing short of tender. His lips quirk up on one side so a dimple can peek out.
"Crudele tesorina,you worried about me. Didn't you."
It's not really a question. I swallow when he gingerly kisses my cheek, apparently not the least worried about his bruising cheek. One of his hands brushes up my side, urging me closer to him on the couch.
How could I not be worried about him? They wereshootingat him. God, I hate that he took even a small beating like this. I mean, I'm sure the other guys looked worse, but still. He shouldn't be in fights like this. He has enough scars and enough hurts that he tries to hide as it is.
"Fine, I'll do it myself," I grumble, grabbing the ice pack and holding it against his cheek none too gently to show him how annoyed I am at all of this.
He chuckles but quickly sobers up as his eyes trace my face. "I'm sorry. I won't let you be a target again. If they ever tried to—" He breaks off with a soft swear and pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine. "They can't hurt you. You're mine."
You're mine.God, my heart should not practically implode at those words, but it does. I like it far too much.
Which makes me stiffen as everything sort of sinks in too quickly. He could have been killed tonight. I could have been shot. Anyone else in this area could have been hurt because of the antics of the mafia families that won't just let their endless vendettas against each other go. I saw firsthand the bloodlust blazing in his eyes before he left. It was the same look Johnny Big Man had when he spat Lorenze Gatto's name.
It's never-ending violence. I can't fucking do it. I can't let our child grow up in this—I have to protect them.
"You wanted my answer earlier," I say, pulling away and setting the ice down. I can't even look at him because I know that his beautiful eyes could weaken my newfound resolve. "No. The answer is no. I'm not yours, Nico. You can't keep me because I can't survive this life of yours. And neither would the baby."
He stiffens, and I feel his hands clench into a fist near my back. "Sybil. You're in shock."
"I'm not," I insist, looking him in the eye. "This isn't just me turning tail and running because of one little bullet—although I think that's plenty enough reason, thank you very much. Look around. You live two different lives, and this one is going to get you killed. I can't stay and watch, and I sure as hell am not going to make a child stay and watch, either."
His eyes narrow. "Sybil—"
"Don'tSybilme like that." I force out the words, huffing as I pull further away from him and avoid his gaze. "Look, we've just gotten turned around and confused because we've been walking down memory lane recently. But that was one day, four years ago, and things have obviously changed—you're The Undertaker, and I can't handle it. Tonight, was a prime example of all of that. We would be careless and stupid if we tried to make this into anything more than what it really was: just a transaction like you said."
Oh, shit. He's pissed. He stands, glowering at me. Despite my stupid ankle, I stand, too, unwilling to back down this time.
"You're really going to fucking do this? You're going to lie to yourself?" he growls.
"I'm not lying about anything. I can't stay with you, and I can't leave a baby to grow up in this life, Nico."
