Chapter 10 - Blood and Thread
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The private medical suite located in the basement of Dante’s fortress was equipped like a high-end surgical trauma unit.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile white glow over the stainless-steel counters and medical monitors.
Dante sat on the edge of an examination table, stripped to the waist, his muscular chest and torso covered in dark bruises and old battle scars.
A deep, ragged bullet wound tore through the flesh of his right shoulder, the blood still oozing sluggishly despite the pressure bandage.
"The family doctor is forty minutes away due to the police checkpoints on the expressway," Marco reported, his face grim with frustration.
"I don't need a damn doctor for a clean through-and-through graze," Dante growled, wincing as he rotated his arm.
"Just hand me the antiseptic and a suture kit."
"You cannot stitch your own right shoulder with your left hand, Boss," Marco said reasonably.
"Then step up and do it yourself, Marco."
"You know my hands shake when I hold a needle smaller than an entrenching tool," Marco muttered, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"I will do it," Norah’s clear, steady voice resonated from the open doorway.
Both men turned to look at her.
She had washed the mud from her face and exchanged the ruined crimson gown for an oversized black cashmere sweater belonging to Dante.
Her auburn hair was pulled back into a practical ponytail, and her jaw was set with unshakeable resolve.
"Norah, this isn't an accounting spreadsheet," Dante said, his voice rough with exhaustion.
"It is flesh and blood."
"When I was sixteen, my father fell through a glass greenhouse roof, and we couldn't afford an emergency room visit," she replied calmly.
"I put twenty-two stitches into his forearm while my mother held the flashlight."
She walked directly over to the stainless-steel sink, scrubbed her hands with surgical soap, and snapped on a pair of sterile latex gloves.
Marco looked at Dante, received a reluctant nod, and quietly exited the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Norah approached the table, picking up a bottle of medical disinfectant and a sterile curved needle threaded with black nylon.
"This is going to hurt," she warned, looking directly into his amber eyes.
"I have endured worse, little accountant."
She poured the antiseptic directly into the open wound.
Dante hissed through his teeth, his hand gripping the edge of the examination table so hard the metal groaned, but he did not utter a sound.
Norah worked with astonishing precision, her small, delicate hands steady and completely focused on the task.
She aligned the torn edges of the skin, pushing the needle through with smooth, calculated movements.
"You didn't run," Dante murmured, his eyes fixed on her face as she leaned in close to work.
"What?" she asked without lifting her gaze from the stitches.
"At the docks, when the shooting started, you could have slipped out into the fog and disappeared."
"And let you die after you used your own body to shield me?"
"Most people would have chosen self-preservation."
"Then most people are cowards," she said softly, pulling the third knot tight.
"You are a remarkably dangerous woman, Norah Gallagher."
"I am an ordinary girl from Queens who got dragged into your nightmare."
"There is nothing ordinary about you."
His left hand came up, his warm, calloused fingers wrapping gently around her wrist, arresting her movement.
Norah froze, the needle held suspended in the air between them as she finally looked up into his gaze.
The air between them evaporated, replaced by an overwhelming, intoxicating tension that made her breath catch in her throat.
His eyes were dark with an intensity that went far beyond physical pain or adrenaline.
"You saved Marco’s life tonight, and you stayed by my side when the world was falling apart," he whispered.
"I finish what I start, Dante."
"Is that all this is to you? Finishing a contract?"
"You know it isn't," she breathed, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
Dante pulled gently on her wrist, drawing her closer until her face was inches from his own.
"Tell me to stop, Norah."
"Tell me to let you walk out of this room, and I will let you go."
Norah looked at the proud, fierce man who held an entire city in his palm, yet looked at her as though she were his only salvation.
She did not tell him to stop.
Instead, she closed the remaining distance and pressed her lips against his.
The kiss was sudden, fierce, and utterly consuming, washing away the terror, the blood, and the boundaries of their separate worlds.
Dante groaned against her mouth, his uninjured arm wrapping securely around her waist, pulling her onto the table against his chest.
His lips were demanding yet exquisitely tender, tasting of iron, rain, and pure, intoxicating desire.
When they finally broke apart for air, her forehead rested against his temple, both of them breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps.
"You still have three more stitches to go, Mr. Russo," she whispered, her fingers trembling against his bare neck.
May you like
Dante smiled, a breathtaking, genuine smile that reached his dark eyes for the very first time.
"Take your time, princess; I'm not going anywhere."
