Elena Vitiello POV:
The next afternoon, the penthouse was quiet. Dante had summoned Dr. Julian, the most exclusive underground surgeon in New York, to check my burns.
Julian was young, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a soft gray sweater. He had a calm, soothing energy that felt entirely out of place in a mafia stronghold.
I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa in the master bedroom. I pulled the collar of my shirt down, exposing the angry red skin and the black surgical stitches crisscrossing my shoulder.
Dante stood less than two feet away. He had his arms crossed over his massive chest. He glared at Julian’s hands with the intensity of a sniper waiting to pull the trigger.
Julian opened his leather medical bag. He pulled out a pair of small surgical scissors. He looked at me, his voice soft and polite. This might pinch a little, Miss Vitiello.
He snipped the first thread and pulled it through the tender skin.
A sharp sting bit into my flesh. My body gave a tiny, involuntary flinch, but I kept my face blank and my mouth shut tight.
Dante’s entire body tensed. The air in the room grew heavy and dangerous.
Julian kept working, his hands quick and precise. You have an incredible tolerance for pain, he murmured, offering me a warm, completely professional smile. Most grown men would be screaming.
Dante did not like that smile.
He took a large step forward. He wedged his massive frame directly between me and Julian, completely blocking my view of the doctor.
Hurry up and finish, Dante snapped, his voice a deep, menacing growl. Stop talking to her.
Julian paused. He pushed his glasses up his nose. He didn't look terrified, just mildly annoyed. Rushing a suture removal leads to tearing, Mr. Moretti. I prefer to minimize the scarring.
The tension in the room spiked. Dante looked like he was five seconds away from throwing the doctor out the window. It was pure, unadulterated territorial aggression.
I watched Dante’s broad back. A strange, fluttering heat bloomed in my chest. No one had ever been this fiercely protective of my physical pain.
Thirty minutes later, the last stitch was out. Julian wiped his forehead with a tissue.
He reached into the bottom of his bag and pulled out a sleek, unbranded silver tube of ointment. He held it out toward me.
This is a custom regenerative compound, Julian explained softly. It needs to be massaged into the scar tissue twice a day. You will need someone to apply it with a firm hand.
Before I could reach for it, Dante’s hand shot out. He snatched the silver tube out of Julian’s grip.
Get out, Dante ordered, staring Julian down.
Julian sighed, packed his bag, nodded respectfully to me, and walked out of the bedroom. The heavy door clicked shut.
The room was suddenly dead silent.
I looked at the tube in Dante’s hand. I reached my hand out. I can do it myself in the bathroom, I said quietly.
Dante stepped out of my reach. His eyes dropped to the ugly, puckered wounds on my shoulder and chest.
How exactly are you going to reach the back of your shoulder blade? he asked, his voice dropping an octave.
I froze. I pulled my shirt up slightly, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness.
Dante didn't hand me the tube. He turned and walked into the massive marble bathroom. He turned on the warm vanity lights.
He stopped in the doorway. He turned his head and looked at me. His eyes were dark, heavy with a hunger he was barely keeping leashed.
"Come here, Elena. Or do you want me to carry you in?"
