Chapter 5 - The Line Between Fake and Real
The safehouse was not a penthouse.
It was an isolated stone compound nestled deep in the wooded hills outside Concord, surrounded by electric fences, thermal cameras, and a small army of Moretti soldiers.
It was nearly four in the morning by the time the doctor finished checking me for injuries. Aside from bruised wrists and ringing ears, I was physically unharmed.
Adrian, however, had not emerged unscathed.
I found him in his private study on the second floor. The room smelled of old leather, woodsmoke, and antiseptic. Adrian was sitting on the edge of a mahogany desk, his dress shirt unbuttoned and discarded on the floor, exposing his broad, heavily muscled torso.
A jagged, bloody gash ran along his ribs—a gift from a shattered piece of marble during his brutal takedown of the assassin.
He was trying to stitch it himself with trembling, blood-stained fingers, a curved suture needle held clumsily in his right hand.
“You’re doing a terrible job,” I said softly from the doorway.
Adrian froze, his eyes snapping up. When he saw me standing there, wearing one of his heavy flannel shirts over a pair of leggings, his posture softened.
“I told you to sleep,” he said raspy.
“I can't sleep,” I answered, walking into the room. “Every time I close my eyes, I see that muzzle flash. Give me that.”
I stepped between his knees, reaching down and gently taking the suture needle and forceps from his hands.
Adrian didn't protest. He leaned back slightly, resting his hands on the edge of the desk, watching me with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly ten degrees hotter.
I poured antiseptic over the needle and the wound. Adrian’s abdominal muscles clenched tight as iron, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth, but he didn't pull away.
“I used to patch up my brother after his hockey games,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady as I carefully aligned the edges of the cut and pushed the needle through his skin. “I’m out of practice, but it’s better than you butchering yourself.”
“Your brother is a lucky man,” Adrian whispered, his eyes never leaving my face.
Up close, the sheer size of him was daunting. His chest was covered in faint scars—bullet wounds, blade cuts, the indelible history of a man who had survived a dozen wars. But right now, sitting beneath the soft amber light of the desk lamp, he didn't look like a mob boss.
He looked tired. He looked human.
“Why didn't you let the doctor stitch you?” I asked, pulling the thread taut and tying a surgical knot.
“The doctor was busy treating Lorenzo’s concussion,” he answered quietly. “And I don't like people touching me when I’m bleeding. It invites weakness.”
“And I don't count as ‘people’?”
Adrian lifted his left hand, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was impossibly soft, contrasting sharply with the violence those hands were capable of.
“You’re not just people, Elena,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, hypnotic cadence that made my chest tighten. “You held your ground tonight. Most women would have cowered. Most men would have frozen. But you put a bullet in Rossi’s man and walked out with your head held high.”
“I was terrified, Adrian,” I whispered, tying off the second stitch. My hands brushed against his bare, warm skin, and an electric spark seemed to leap between us. “I’m still terrified.”
“Fear is natural,” he said, his thumb drifting down from my ear to trace the delicate curve of my jawline. “Courage isn't the absence of fear, Elena. It’s moving forward even when your soul is screaming to run.”
I finished the final stitch, cutting the thread with surgical scissors. I should have stepped back. I should have walked away, returned to my safe, locked bedroom down the hall, and put distance between myself and this dangerous man.
Instead, I stayed right where I was, trapped between his powerful thighs, my hands resting lightly against his broad, bare chest. I could feel the thunderous, steady beat of his heart beneath my palms.
“Adrian,” I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room.
“Elena.”
He didn't ask for permission, but he didn't rush either. He slid his hands up to my waist, pulling me an inch closer, his eyes asking the question his pride wouldn't voice.
I tilted my chin up.
When his lips met mine, the universe collapsed into a single, blinding point of heat.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was desperate, fierce, and starving—fueled by the adrenaline of surviving an ambush, the terror of almost losing each other, and the undeniable, suffocating attraction that had been building between us since I woke up in his bed.
Adrian groaned deep in his throat, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me flush against his hard, muscled body. His mouth parted mine with possessive authority, tasting of whiskey and danger.
I tangled my fingers in his thick, dark hair, pressing myself into him, abandoning every shred of logic and self-preservation. For days, I had felt like a victim tossed into a stormy sea; but in his arms, beneath his kiss, I felt like the storm itself.
He lifted me effortlessly, setting me down onto the edge of the mahogany desk, scattering papers and files across the floor. He stepped between my legs, his hands framing my face as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing mine with an urgent, raw hunger.
“Elena,” he breathed against my lips, his forehead resting against mine as we both struggled for air. His gray eyes were black with dilated pupils. “If you don't tell me to stop right now… I won’t be able to.”
I looked at him—at the ruthless mafia boss who had torn my life apart, who had bled for me, who had looked at me tonight as if I were the only light in his dark, twisted world.
“Don't stop,” I whispered.
A low, guttural growl vibrated in Adrian’s chest. He pulled the oversized flannel shirt off my shoulders, casting it aside, his mouth descending onto the sensitive skin of my neck, marking me with hot, bruising kisses that set my entire soul on fire.
The line between fake and real didn't just blur.
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It was incinerated.
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