62

MILLIE
As she vanished from sight, Gio stepped into the room. He lingered in the doorway, an enigmatic expression on his face as his gaze roamed over me. Gradually, he approached the bed, bestowing a gentle kiss upon my forehead. “Do you need morphine?” he inquired, his concern evident.
The pain in my shoulder flared, intense and unyielding. “Yes,” I admitted, feeling a desperate need for relief.
Gio retrieved a syringe from the nightstand, his touch both tender and deliberate as he administered the medication. Once done, he discarded the syringe, yet his grip on my hand remained steadfast. Our fingers intertwined, a connection forged through shared trials. “Did we lose anyone?” I asked, my heart heavy with the knowledge of potential loss.
“Several,” Gio acknowledged, a weight in his words. “Valerio and a couple of our soldiers. And Enrique.”
The memory of Enrique being struck down still haunted me, a surreal image that was difficult to process. It was a duty I dreaded but knew I had to fulfill – writing a letter to Enrique’s wife, offering condolences with a clear mind.
“What did Aldo mean when he said you had something that belonged to him?” I inquired, my curiosity piqued despite the circumstances.
Gio’s expression darkened, his features clouded with tension. “We intercepted one of their drug shipments. But that’s not important now.”
Perplexed, I probed further, “What is important then?”
A rare vulnerability glimmered in Gio’s eyes. “That I nearly lost you. That I witnessed you getting shot,” his voice held a mixture of emotions. “You were fortunate the bullet only grazed your shoulder. The Doc assured me it will heal fully, and you’ll regain complete use of your arm.”
A faint smile tugged at my lips, though the haze induced by morphine made it hard to sustain. I fought against the heaviness, determined to stay awake. Gio leaned in closer, his concern evident. “Promise me you won’t do something like that again.”
I struggled to keep my eyes open, my breath shallow. “What?” I mumbled.
“Taking a bullet for me,” Gio whispered, his vulnerability a rare glimpse into his innermost feelings.
~*~
Bathing became an arduous task, fraught with challenges. I found myself contending with waterproof caps to shield my bandages a minor inconvenience compared to the relief of warm water rinsing away the residue of blood and sweat. The recent departure of Harper, Sienna, and Karsen still lingered in my thoughts; they had left merely an hour ago under Father’s insistence. Yet, Chicago didn’t offer them any greater safety, for the ominous presence of the Bratva loomed over the Outfit as well. At least, I had the solace of their company for an additional day, a fleeting extension of time that I cherished. Throughout my bedridden hours, they had been a source of diversion, an antidote to the monotony, while Gio bore the weight of responsibilities as the Capo. His duty necessitated a show of strategic prowess, a plan to counter the mounting threats.
Gradually, a sense of rejuvenation enveloped me. The painkillers ingested a couple of hours prior seemed to cast a soothing spell, and I emerged from the shower feeling noticeably improved. Wrapping myself in a towel, I embarked on the intricate task of dressing. My actions were inhibited by the reminder from the doctor to minimize the use of my left arm. Donning my undergarments required a degree of dexterity, and then came the challenge of donning a nightgown a seemingly ordinary endeavor that turned into a small feat. With one shoulder bearing the burden of a strap, I retreated into the bedroom, where a surprise awaited.
Sitting on the bed was Gio, a presence that had been notably absent during the whirlwind of recent events. His immediate response to my arrival indicated his readiness to assist, as he deftly maneuvered the second strap into place. A gentle touch signaled the direction, and soon, he guided me to sit beside him. The opportunities for private conversations had been scarce, save for the initial exchange clouded by the haze of morphine.
With a glint of curiosity, I posed the question, “Done with business?”
He nodded, his actions reverberating with a renewed sense of vigilance and concern. Drawing nearer, his fingers danced over my shoulder, securing the final strap, before he ushered me to sit. The unspoken words that had accumulated between us since that initial conversation seemed to hang in the air, finally granted the space they deserved.
“I’m fine,” I offered, a reassurance that seemed essential in light of his demeanor. The silence stretched on, punctuated by the weight of his gaze, until he abruptly knelt before me, his face pressed against my stomach. The warmth of his presence sent a shiver coursing through me, a tangible reminder of the near-miss we had narrowly escaped.
His voice carried a tinge of vulnerability as he murmured, “I could have lost you two days ago.”
The gravity of those words tugged at my heartstrings, the fragility of life underscored by the events that had unfolded. “But you didn’t,” I countered, a whisper that held within it a measure of gratitude that defied expression.
His gaze lifted to meet mine, and in that moment, a torrent of emotions flowed between us. The unspoken question lingered, the one that demanded an explanation for the choice that had led to this juncture. “Why did you do this? Why did you take a bullet for me?” His voice bore the weight of confusion, as if the answer eluded him.
My response was hushed, yet resolute, “Do you really not know why?”
The pause that ensued was pregnant with significance, as if the truth hung delicately on the precipice of revelation. “I love you, Gio,” I confessed, the words tumbling forth with a courage born from the proximity of death. In this precarious moment, declarations carried a different weight, a freedom to bare one’s soul when mortality’s grip had momentarily loosened.
Gio’s movements were deliberate, his hands cradling my cheeks as he absorbed the reality of my words. “You love me,” he repeated, his tone tinged with disbelief, as though grappling with the concept that had been unveiled. It was as though the confession defied the boundaries of his comprehension, challenging the very foundations of his world.
“You shouldn’t love me, Millie,” he interjected, his words a tapestry of conflicted emotions. “I’m not someone who should be loved. People fear me, they hate me, they respect me, they admire me, but they don’t love me. I’m a killer. I’m good at killing. Better probably than at anything else, and I don’t regret it. Fuck, sometimes I even enjoy it. That’s a man you want to love?”
The truth that I had long grappled with welled up within me, urging me to respond. “It’s not a matter of want, Gio. It’s not like I could choose to stop loving you.”
His nod carried a sense of understanding, a bridge between our worlds that had been previously uncharted. “And you hate that you love me. I remember you saying it before.”
The evolution of my emotions seemed to unravel with each word, revealing a truth that had undergone metamorphosis. “No. Not anymore. I know you aren’t a good man. I’ve always known it, and I don’t care. I know I should. I know I should lie awake at night hating myself for being okay with my husband being the boss of one of the most brutal and deadliest crime organizations in the States. But I don’t. What does that make me?” I paused, my gaze drifting to my hands, hands that had once wielded a gun with unwavering resolve. “And I killed a man and I don’t feel sorry. Not one bit. I would do it again.” Meeting Gio’s gaze, I continued, “What does that make me, Gio? I’m a killer like you.”
Assuredly, he responded, his words colored by conviction, “You did what you had to. He deserved to die.”
A moment of introspection followed, as if the very essence of our souls lay bare between us. “There’s not one of us who doesn’t deserve death. We probably deserve it more than most.”
“You are good, Millie. You are innocent. I forced you into this.”