Chapter 7 - The Nurse and the Boss
They couldn't go back to the penthouse. The police would lock it down. Enzo drove them to a secondary safehouse in Brooklyn—a non-descript brownstone with reinforced steel doors.
Once inside, the adrenaline wore off, and Sophia saw the blood on Dante’s tuxedo.
“You’re shot,” she gasped, forgetting her own pain instantly.
“It’s a graze on my side,” Dante grunted, peeling off his ruined jacket and tossing it to the floor. “I’m fine.”
“Sit down on the island,” Sophia commanded, her ER nurse instincts overriding her terror.
She found the medical kit under the sink. Dante sat on the granite counter, his white shirt soaked in crimson. She unbuttoned it, her hands shaking slightly as she revealed his heavily tattooed chest and the deep, bleeding gash along his obliques.
“I need to stitch this,” she said, cleaning the wound with iodine.
“Do it,” he said, not wincing. He wasn't looking at the wound; he was looking at her.
She worked quickly, her face inches from his chest. The physical proximity was intoxicating. She could feel his heart hammering against her knuckles. As she tied off the last suture, she looked up.
Their faces were inches apart.
“I’m sorry,” Dante whispered, his voice cracking. “I tried to keep this away from you. I divorced you to keep you safe from this exact night. And I failed.”
“You didn't fail, Dante,” Sophia said, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I didn't want a safe life. I just wanted a life where you didn't lie to me. Where I didn't have to wonder if you were coming home.”
Dante reached out, his large, blood-stained hand cupping her face.
“I will always come home to you,” he vowed.
May you like
He didn't ask for permission. He pulled her flush against his chest, capturing her lips in a kiss that was desperate, bruised, and starved. Eighteen months of grief and longing poured into the kiss. Sophia moaned softly, tangling her fingers in his damp hair, kissing him back with equal ferocity.
He lifted her onto the counter beside him, careful of her ribs, his mouth moving down her jaw, worshiping her skin. There was no holding back. The divorce papers were ashes. They were exactly where they were always meant to be.
