Chapter 7: The Scars We Carry
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck 3:00 AM when the heavy oak door to the west wing finally opened.
Elena was awake, curled up on the velvet sofa in the sitting room, a thick blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She had paced the floors for hours, her stomach tied in agonizing knots, praying to every saint she knew for the safe return of a mafia boss.
Damiano stepped into the dim light. He looked exhausted. He had discarded his trench coat, but his white shirt was torn at the bicep, a dark stain of crimson spreading across the fabric. A stray bullet had grazed him during the extraction.
"You're hurt," Elena gasped, dropping her blanket and rushing to his side.
"It is nothing," Damiano grunted, waving her off, though his face was pale. "Just a graze. Go to sleep, Elena."
"Do not tell me what to do, Mr. Verrone," she snapped, a sudden surge of adrenaline making her bold. "Sit down on that chair. Now."
Damiano blinked, taken aback by her fiery tone. To his own surprise, he didn't argue. He walked over to the armchair and sat heavily, wincing slightly.
Elena rushed to the adjoining bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit. She knelt beside him, her hands surprisingly steady as she unbuttoned his ruined shirt to assess the damage. As she pulled the fabric back, her breath caught in her throat.
His torso was a canvas of violence. Scars crisscrossed his chest and abdomen—some faded, some jagged and terrible. The most prominent were three round, puckered scars near his heart. The bullets from the ambush three years ago.
Damiano watched her face carefully, waiting for the revulsion, the fear. He was a monster, and he wore the evidence of his sins on his skin.
But Elena didn't pull away. Her eyes softened with a profound, aching sadness. She gently cleaned the fresh graze on his arm, applying antiseptic and wrapping it in a tight bandage.
"Does it hurt?" she asked softly, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the scars on his chest.
"The arm?"
"No," Elena whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. "The memory."
Damiano’s breath hitched. For the first time in his life, he felt entirely exposed. He reached up, his large hand gently catching her wrist. Her skin was warm, a stark contrast to his coldness.
"Every day," he confessed, his voice a low, rough rumble. "Until yesterday."
Elena felt a blush creep up her neck, her heart hammering against her ribs. The distance between them had vanished, the air thick with an unspoken, electrifying tension. Damiano’s thumb traced the pulse point on her wrist, his gaze dropping to her lips.
"You should go to sleep, Elena," he murmured, though he didn't let go of her hand.
May you like
"So should you, Damiano," she replied, using his first name for the very first time.
He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair, the warmth of her presence anchoring him to a peace he thought he had lost forever.
