Chapter 8 - Scars and Secrets
The aftermath of Sofia's expulsion was not a victory; it was the lighting of a fuse.
Everyone in the house knew what was coming. The Rossi syndicate wouldn't swallow such an insult quietly. Antonio Rossi was an old-school mobster who believed honor was washed in blood.
By evening, Ricardo hadn't returned to the main house. He was holed up in the security command bunker beneath the garage.
At eleven o'clock, the heavy oak doors of the foyer opened.
Ricardo staggered in.
He was alone. His coat was gone, his white dress shirt torn at the left shoulder and soaked in crimson. He was breathing heavily, leaning against the marble pillar to keep his balance.
I was sitting in the library, waiting for the house to settle, when I heard the dull thud of his body hitting the floor.
I dropped my book and ran.
"Ricardo!"
He was slumped against the wall, clutching his side. A gash ran from his collarbone down past his ribs—a blade wound, jagged and shallow, but bleeding profusely.
"Clara..." he rasped, his vision unfocused. "What are you... doing awake?"
"Call the doctor!" I yelled toward the hallway.
"No!" Ricardo grabbed my arm with bloody fingers. "No doctors. The hospitals are watched. Vincent has men outside who can't know I took a hit. Help me to the study. Now."
I bit my lip, swallowed my terror, and hooked his heavy arm over my shoulders. He was massive, solid muscle, dead weight against my smaller frame, but adrenaline gave me strength I didn't know I had.
I dragged him into his private study, locked the heavy double doors behind us, and lowered him onto the leather sofa.
"First aid kit," he muttered, pointing toward an antique globe near the bookshelves. "Inside."
I ran to it, swung the globe open, and found a fully equipped tactical trauma kit: sutures, sterile gauze, antiseptic, morphine.
I tore his shirt open.
His chest was a map of past violence. Old bullet scars, faint lines from knife fights, a jagged burn near his hip. But right now, blood was welling rapidly from a four-inch laceration across his pectorals.
"They ambushed the convoy on the bridge," Ricardo grunted, his eyes squeezed shut as I poured antiseptic directly into the wound. He didn't scream; he only hissed through his teeth, his fingers digging into the leather sofa so hard the seams groaned.
"Why didn't you stay in the car?" I demanded, my hands working with steady precision. When Lily was in chemotherapy, I had learned how to clean wounds, change PICC lines, and bandage trauma. I didn't panic at blood.
"Because the car was targeted with an RPG," he whispered, opening his eyes to look at me. "I had to draw them off so the decoys could clear the residential zones."
"You're an idiot," I said, threading a curved suture needle with trembling but determined fingers.
Ricardo let out a wet, breathless laugh. "You're the only person alive who talks to me like that, Clara."
"Bite down on something. This is going to hurt."
He refused the wooden block I offered. Instead, he reached up and took my free left hand, gripping it tightly. "Just do it."
I began to sew.
Every stitch pulled at his flesh, but Ricardo never made a sound. He just held my hand, his thumb stroking across my knuckles, his dark eyes locked onto my face. The pain was agonizing, but his gaze was intoxicatingly intense.
"Why did you protect Leo from Sofia?" he asked softly, between shallow breaths. "You could have stepped aside. Sofia is a dangerous woman."
"I buried my daughter, Ricardo," I whispered, tying off the third knot, tears burning the backs of my eyes. "I stood by a white casket and realized there is nothing in this world scarier than an empty room where your child used to sleep. Sofia Rossi could have had a machine gun, and I still would have jumped between them."
Ricardo’s hand tightened over mine. He raised my hand to his lips and pressed a slow, reverent kiss against the back of my fingers.
"You are not a servant in this house, Clara," he swore, his voice thick with emotion. "You are its heart."
The room grew very quiet, save for our mingled breathing. For a second, his face was inches from mine. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises, feel the radiant heat of his skin.
Then, three sharp knocks rattled the study door.
"Boss?" Vincent's voice called from the hall. "We caught one of Rossi's shooters alive. What do you want us to do with him?"
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The softness in Ricardo vanished instantly. The monster was back.
***