Chapter 6 - The Blood and the Thread
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The adrenaline crash after the Falcone standoff left the entire estate in a suffocating state of high alert.
Later that evening, after finally getting an exhausted Finn to sleep, I walked downstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. The house was deathly quiet, the guards patrolling the perimeter with elevated aggression.
I pushed the swinging kitchen door open and froze.
Victor was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island. He had stripped off his shirt, revealing a torso covered in old, faded scars. But it was the fresh, bleeding laceration across his left bicep that made my stomach drop.
He held a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a crude first-aid kit in the other, awkwardly trying to clean the deep cut with a cotton pad.
"What happened?" I gasped, rushing forward.
"A disagreement at the docks," Victor grunted, wincing as the alcohol hit the open wound. "The Falcones thought they could test my borders after pulling that stunt at the gates today. They were wrong."
"You need a doctor," I said, snatching the bloody cotton pad from his hand.
"My private doctor is out of the city, and I am not going to a hospital to answer questions," Victor stated stubbornly. "It just needs a few stitches."
"You can't stitch your own arm," I snapped, pulling a sterile needle and surgical thread from the kit. "Hold still."
Victor looked at me, surprise flickering in his dark gray eyes. He didn't argue. He placed his arm flat on the marble counter, his muscles corded and tense.
I cleaned the wound with meticulous care, my hands shaking slightly. I had taken a few advanced first-aid courses during college, but stitching up a mafia boss in a pristine kitchen was not on my resume.
As I worked, the proximity between us became overwhelming. I could feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. I could smell the sharp scent of copper mixed with his expensive cologne.
"You're very gentle," Victor murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips.
"I'm trying not to hurt you," I replied, keeping my eyes firmly on the needle.
"You are the only person in this house who isn't terrified of me," he noted softly.
"I'm terrified of what you do, Victor," I corrected, tying off the final stitch and snipping the thread. "But I'm not terrified of you."
May you like
He reached out with his uninjured arm, his large hand gently gripping my chin, forcing me to look up into his eyes.
"Maybe you should be," Victor whispered, the tension between us thick enough to cut with a knife.
