Rafaele growls a curse and pulls out a knife.
I grasp his arm. “Tell Gem, Vale, and Vince that I love them.”
He ignores me, his expression a mask of pure concentration. He cuts through the glimmering cords of my dress and pushes them aside to expose my belly.
My gaze jolts back up to his face. I don’t want to look at the wound. I can’t. I’m going to be sick.
“Rafaele,” I breathe.
He grabs a cloth napkin from the bar and starts gently prodding my stomach.
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I need to clean up the blood so that I can see what’s going on.”
I’m dying, that’s what’s going on. How many times did I say I’d rather die than be a mob wife? Now, here I am, less than one week into my marriage, bleeding out on the floor of a restaurant, and I feel like an idiot.
I don’t want to die.
“You’re not as horrible as I thought you’d be,” I squeeze out.
Rafaele doesn’t answer. He’s so focused on what he’s doing, I’m not even sure he heard me.
“Maybe if we had more time,” I whisper. “Maybe if I got to know you better…” I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Everyone says you’re supposed to have clarity on your deathbed, but I’m more confused than ever. I reach for his wrist and wrap my hand around it.
Finally, he lifts his gaze to mine. There’s no coldness in it. Just relief.
“You’re going to be fine.”
I shake my head. He’s in denial. He couldn’t defend me, and made men don’t know how to handle failure.
“I’m dying.” My voice is weak. I use the last of my strength to cup his cheek. “Don’t let my death haunt you for the rest of your life. You did the best you could.”
His lips twitch. “You’re not dying.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Who knew you were so dramatic.”
My brows furrow. I don’t understand. “What? But I’m bleeding. I feel faint.”
“Flesh wounds. You somehow got shards of glass in your belly, but they’re not very deep. A lot of people feel faint when they see blood if they’re not used to it.” He kisses my palm this time, ignoring that it’s covered in my blood. “How did this happen?”
Is he serious? I glance down at myself even though I feel like I might puke. There’s no bullet hole. Only glass.
“I-I slid along the floor to get my purse so that I could call for help.”
He huffs an annoyed breath. “Why would you do that? I had the situation under control.”
My cheeks grow warm. Everything grows warm. “I didn’t know that. I thought they were going to kill you!”
“It was just three guys. Two are dead and one got away.” His eyes flicker with amusement and something softer that steals the air out of my lungs. “You were worried about me.”
Worried? Was I worried? Yes, I was. But now I’m not worried. Now I’m just embarrassed.
“I didn’t want to die here with you,” I mutter. “I was only worried about myself.”
He shakes his head, his lips lifting at the corners. “You said I wasn’t as horrible as you thought I was. And what else were you trying to say? Something about us having more time?” He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Don’t worry, we’ve got all the time in the world, tesoro mio.”
His treasure.
A cocktail of emotions fills my chest. “Don’t call me that.” I try to shove him away, but he shushes me, his expression once again turning serious.
“Stop. You shouldn’t move too much, or you might lodge the glass in more. We need to get you cleaned up.”
The doors to the restaurant burst open, and men with guns stream in, led by a frazzled-looking Sandro. “Boss!” He jogs over to us. “You two okay? Nero is on his way.”
Rafaele covers me with his jacket. “My wife is hurt,” he says to Sandro as he lifts me off the ground and cradles me to his chest. “One of the shooters got away. Clean this mess and find him.”
Sandro rakes his gaze over me, but he can’t see the mess on my stomach under Rafaele’s jacket. Still, his jaw firms. “We’ll get him.”
Rafaele’s grip on me tightens. “I want him brought to me alive so that I can carve his body into pieces after I find out who he works for,” he says, his voice dangerously low.
Ice threads through my insides. If I were the attacker who got away, I’d be shitting my pants right about now.