Chapter 72: Don’t Come In Here

“And the venue?”

“Will be cleared, locked down. Staff will be searched. Kitchen will be inspected twice.”

“Good. Go. I’ll bring your dinner and a change of clothes,” Nonnina said.

“Thank you, Nonnina,” Luca replied. He bent, kissed her silver hair once more, then straightened. He turned and left the main building, crossed the courtyard toward the smaller apartment behind the house.

He unlocked the door quietly, stepping inside just as her gagging sound hit him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, already moving.

He followed the noise down the short hall and into the bedroom, then the bathroom, where he found her bent over the toilet, one hand gripping the porcelain. Her hair had fallen forward in a dark curtain, hiding her face, her shoulders shaking with each miserable heave.

“Vee?” he called softly.

“Don’t come in here,” she croaked.

He ignored her completely.

Luca dropped to his knees beside her, and gathered her hair in his hand, holding it back as she threw up again. He’d seen worse things come out of men who deserved it.

“Ughhh… why did you let me drink so much?” Vee whined when it passed, slumping weakly.

“I warned you,” he said calmly. “You didn’t listen to me. You make a sport of never listening to me.”

She turned her head just enough to glare at him. “Go to hell.”

He smirked faintly. “Already have property there.”

She dry-heaved again, and he waited it out, hand steady, thumb brushing absently against her scalp.

When it was over, he helped her up, strong arm wrapping around her waist.

She shuffled to the sink, splashed water on her face, rinsed her mouth, then tried to straighten and immediately swayed.

Luca caught her before she face-planted. “Easy,” he murmured.

She squinted up at him, eyes glassy, lashes clumped with moisture. “You’re annoyingly solid.”

“You’re not exactly a challenge in weight.”

“Show-off,” she muttered.

He guided her back into the bedroom, where she promptly collapsed onto the mattress.

“Is Marco okay?” she asked, even with her eyes closed.

“Yes, he is,” Luca answered immediately.

“Thank you, Luca,” she murmured, already drifting, the tension leaving her face in a slow unravel. Her breathing evened out.

Luca clicked his tongue quietly. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the chair.

He moved carefully and started with her dress, easing it over her head, mindful not to jostle her. The fabric slid free and landed on the floor in a careless heap. She stirred faintly but didn’t wake, her brow creasing before smoothing again.

Luca exhaled slowly. Behave, Luca, behave.

He turned toward the closet, choosing clothes. He found a pair of soft shorts and a flimsy, airy top.

When he returned to the bed, he removed her bra, his expression set, jaw tight, eyes deliberately unfocused. He refused to look too long, refused to let admiration turn into hunger. This was not that moment.

He removed her underwear next, turning his attention inward to Vienna. Julian. His father. His wife.

He dressed her carefully, easing the shorts up, slipping the top over her arms.

Once she was settled, he pulled the sheet up around her, tucking it in so she wouldn’t kick it away in her sleep.

Luca leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to her lips, barely there. A reward, he told himself.

He did not remember deciding to sleep. One moment there had been the hot bite of the shower against his skin, steam loosening his muscles. Then Nonnina bringing his dinner. He remembered sitting on the edge of the bed. He remembered pulling her into him, her warmth fitting against his chest.

After that, nothing. Oblivion.

Which was probably why the morning felt wrong before his eyes even opened.

Luca stirred, instincts snapping awake before consciousness fully followed. Something was off. His shoulders refused to roll the way they always did. His hands… his hands were not where they should be.

He jerked upward sharply, muscles coiling for violence. His hands slid instinctively under the pillow, searching for the familiar cold reassurance of steel. No gun.

Because this was not his room.

The fog burned off in a heartbeat.

His wrists were bound with a thin, treacherous little strip of fabric. It looked like one of those tiny strings women used instead of a belt.

“Tell me,” Veronica’s voice drawled lazily from his left, “how does one punish a mafia god?”

He turned his head slowly, eyes adjusting to the light. She sat at the dresser, legs crossed, hair a dark, untamed spill down her back.

“Excuse me?” he asked. The corner of his mouth betrayed him, the faintest smile surfacing.

“I’m serious,” she said, inspecting her nails. “I have no experience.”

“Uhm… depends,” Luca said lazily, eyes flicking down to his wrists again. The binding was laughable. Soft fabric. A decorative knot. He could slip free in seconds if he angled his thumbs just right and flexed. He stayed still anyway. Chose indulgence over dominance. “What exactly has this mafia god done?”

“He made me a promise,” she said evenly, “and he broke it.”

“I don’t break promises, Bambola.”

“You did,” she shot back.

“I did not.”

“You did,” she insisted, pushing off the dresser. “You said you were going to wake me up when you got back. You promised me.”

Luca laughed. An incredulous sound that scraped out of his chest. “Oh, you remember last night now, do you?” he said dryly. “I was thinking the alcohol would mess with your memory. But apparently it did anyway, because when I got back, you were very much awake.”

“I was not,” she said immediately.

“You were,” he replied calmly. “You were throwing up in the bathroom. I held your hair. I walked you to bed. I changed your clothes.”

“You perv!”

Luca stared at her, genuinely stunned. “Okay?” he said slowly. “How am I the bad guy here?”

“You undressed me!”

“I prevented you from sleeping in vomit,” he shot back. “You’re welcome.”

“You still broke your promise,” she muttered.

“You fell asleep,” he said. “I didn’t wake you because you needed rest.”

(8 Chapters to go. I knew I could do it! Haha)

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