Chapter 7 - Blood and Silk
The medical suite on the third floor of Villa Moretti was cleaner and more technologically advanced than most private hospitals in Manhattan. Dr. Chen, the family’s discreet private surgeon, finished tying the final suture on Clara’s left forearm.
"Clean through-and-through graze, Miss Vance," Dr. Chen said, wiping the area with antiseptic. "Six stitches. No tendon damage. You were remarkably lucky."
"Luck had nothing to do with it," Rico’s voice came from the doorway.
He was leaning against the jamb, his suit jacket discarded, his shirt cuffs unbuttoned and rolled back. He had sent Leo downstairs with Mrs. Gable after the boy had finally calmed down with a warm cup of cocoa. Rico hadn't left the third floor for two hours.
"Leave us, Doctor," Rico commanded.
Dr. Chen packed his instruments into his leather bag, gave a polite nod, and slipped out of the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him.
Clara sat on the edge of the examination table, wearing a sleeveless black silk tank top provided by the estate staff. The bandage on her arm was crisp white. The adrenaline had completely worn off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a terrifying vulnerability.
Rico walked over slowly, holding a glass of water and two pain relievers. He offered them to her.
"Drink," he said quietly.
Clara took the pills, swallowed them with the water, and handed the glass back. She looked down at her lap, her hands clutched tightly together.
"You know," Clara whispered. It wasn't a question.
Rico set the glass on the metal tray. He pulled up a wheeled stool and sat down directly in front of her, his knees almost touching hers.
"I know," Rico replied, his voice devoid of anger, filled instead with a dark, heavy solemnity. "I know about Chicago. I know about Roberto Rossi. I know about Viktor Vance."
Clara flinched at the sound of the name. A cold shudder ran down her spine. "Then you know why I lied. I wasn't trying to infiltrate your family, Mr. Moretti. I was just trying to survive. Viktor... he is a butcher. He killed my parents in their kitchen while I hid in the pantry. When he caught me, he told me that if I ever spoke to the police, he’d skin everyone I’ve ever smiled at alive. I took his name because it was the only identification I could forge quickly."
She looked up at him, tears finally spilling over her dark eyelashes, carving tracks down her pale cheeks. "I brought danger to your son today. I broke my promise. If you want me gone, I understand. Just... please don't let Viktor take me back."
Rico stared at her. The merciless mobster who had executed traitors without blinking felt a sharp, twisting pain in his chest that stole his breath.
He reached out, his large, scarred hand gently cupping the side of her face. His thumb moved slowly, brushing away the hot tear on her cheek.
"Look at me, Clara," Rico ordered, his voice a low, gravelly hum.
She forced her eyes to meet his.
"You threw your body over my son while bullets were flying," Rico said, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her pulse race. "My own blood relatives have run from gunfire, but you—a girl with no reason to care about this family—used your own flesh and bone to shield him. You didn't bring danger to my son, Clara. You saved his life."
"Rico..." she breathed, using his first name for the very first time.
Rico leaned closer, his face inches from hers. The air between them vanished, replaced by an intoxicating gravity that neither of them could fight anymore.
"Viktor Vance made a fatal mistake today," Rico whispered, his thumb trailing down from her cheek to the corner of her soft lips. "He thought you were alone. He didn't realize that the moment you walked into my home and held my son, you fell under the protection of the Moretti bloodline."
Clara’s lips parted, her breath trembling against his skin. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're done running," Rico growled softly, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "You don't sleep in Queens anymore. You don't look over your shoulder. You are mine to protect. And anyone who looks at you with violence will answer to every gun I possess in this city."
Clara’s heart hammered violently against her ribs. She saw the raw, possessive fire in his eyes—a dark, overwhelming promise of safety wrapped in dangerous power. Before she could process the sheer madness of it, Rico closed the distance between them.
He captured her mouth in a deep, fierce, intoxicating kiss.
Clara let out a muffled gasp, but she didn't pull away. Instead, her uninjured hand reached up, her fingers tangling into his thick, dark hair. The kiss wasn't gentle; it was hungry, desperate, filled with the pent-up tension of two broken souls who had spent years fighting their own wars. Rico groaning softly against her lips, his hands gripping her waist, lifting her slightly off the table, pulling her flush against his hard, muscular chest.
For the first time in two years, Clara didn't feel afraid. In the arms of Brooklyn’s most feared monster, she felt invulnerable.
When Rico finally broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, both of them were breathing heavily. His grey eyes were blazing with a dark, triumphant fire.
"Tomorrow night is the Five Families Gala at the Plaza," Rico murmured against her lips. "Marcone will be there. Viktor will be lurking in the shadows. I was going to leave you here under heavy guard."
"And now?" Clara asked, her voice breathless, her hand resting over his racing heart.
May you like
Rico smiled—a cold, terrifying, predatory smirk. "Now, you wear silk and diamonds. You walk into that ballroom on my arm. We show them that the girl they hunted is now the queen they can never touch."
***
