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I don't know if he can hear me, if my words penetrate the veil of pain and blood loss. But I keep talking, keep up a steady stream of reassurance as I work to save his life.
It feels like hours, like days, but in reality it's only minutes before the bleeding slows, the flow tapering off to a sluggish ooze. I sit back on my heels, my arms aching, my hands sticky with drying blood.
Enzo is still unconscious, his face drawn and pale. But his chest rises and falls steadily, his pulse strong and even beneath my fingertips. He's alive. Wounded, but alive.
Relief crashes over me, so strong it makes me dizzy. I slump forward, my forehead pressed to Enzo's uninjured shoulder, my breath coming in great, shuddering gasps.
I don't know how long I stay like that, my face buried in the curve of Enzo's neck, breathing in the scent of his skin beneath the coppery tang of blood. Long enough for my heart to stop racing, for the adrenaline to leach from my system, leaving me weak and trembling.
Finally, I force myself to move. I can't stay here, kneeling on the hard tile with Enzo's blood drying on my skin. I need to get him somewhere safe, somewhere I can tend to his wounds properly.
With a grunt of effort, I heave Enzo's limp body into my arms. He's heavy, all solid muscle and dead weight, but I manage to stagger to my feet. I half-carry, half-drag him down the hall to the bedroom, my muscles screaming with the strain.
By the time I reach the bed, I'm panting and sweating, my arms shaking with fatigue. I lower Enzo as gently as I can onto the mattress, arranging his limbs and checking his pulse again. Still strong, still steady.
I allow myself a moment to just look at him, to take in the sight of this powerful, dangerous man laid low. In sleep, his face is soft and vulnerable, the hard lines and sharp angles smoothed away. He looks younger, almost peaceful, despite the blood and the bandages.
Something clenches in my chest, a feeling I can't name. It's more than gratitude, more than the simple relief of a crisis averted. It's something deeper, something that thrums in my blood and aches in my bones.
I shake my head, pushing the feeling away. I can't think about that now, can't examine too closely the tangle of emotions Enzo stirs in me. I have work to do, a debt to repay.
The next few hours pass in a blur of activity. I clean and dress Enzo's wound, thankful for the well-stocked first aid kit I find in the bathroom. I strip off his blood-soaked clothes, trying not to let my eyes linger on the expanse of olive skin and taut muscle.
I force water and painkillers down his throat, coaxing him to swallow with gentle words and soft touches. I sit by his bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, until the gray light of dawn seeps through the curtains.
Exhaustion tugs at me, my eyes gritty and sore. But I can't sleep, can't let myself relax. Not when Enzo is still unconscious, still vulnerable. I need to be awake, need to be ready for whatever comes next.
Because something will come next. Those men, the ones who attacked us...they were just the beginning. Enzo said it himself - in his world, there are no loose ends. No witnesses left alive.
I'm a liability now, a chink in his armor. And I have no doubt that there will be others, other men with guns and cold eyes, who will come to finish what the first three started.
The thought should terrify me. Should send me running for the hills, as far and as fast as I can go. But it doesn't. Because as dangerous as Enzo's world is, as much as it goes against everything I believe in...I can't walk away.
I can't leave him. Not now, not after everything that's happened. He's a part of me now, whether I like it or not. His blood on my hands, his life in my debt.
And if I'm being honest with myself, it's more than that. More than just obligation or gratitude. There's something between us, something I felt from the moment I first looked into his eyes in that alley.
A connection, a spark. A recognition of something kindred, something shared. He's a mystery, a puzzle I can't help but want to solve. A man with shadows in his eyes and blood on his hands, but also a flicker of something bright and warm, buried deep.
I want to know him. Want to understand the choices he's made, the life he's lived. I want to see beneath the mask of the hardened criminal, to the man underneath.
It's crazy. It's reckless. It goes against every instinct of self-preservation I have. But I can't help it. I'm drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. And even if I get burned...I think it might just be worth it.
The day passes slowly, the hours ticking by in a haze of worry and exhaustion. I doze fitfully in the chair by Enzo's bed, jerking awake at every sound, every shift in his breathing. I force myself to eat, to drink, to tend to my own basic needs. But always, my focus is on him.
As the sun dips below the horizon, painting the room in shades of gold and shadow, Enzo begins to stir. A low groan escapes his lips, his eyelids fluttering. I'm at his side in an instant, my heart in my throat.
"Enzo? Can you hear me?"
His eyes open slowly, hazy and unfocused. He blinks up at me, confusion and pain etched into the lines of his face. "Luca? What...what happened?"
His voice is rough, rasping. I grab a glass of water from the bedside table, holding it to his lips. He drinks greedily, water spilling down his chin.
"You were shot," I tell him, my own voice shaking. "In the shoulder. I managed to stop the bleeding, but...it was touch and go for a while."
He frowns, his gaze sharpening as the memories come flooding back. "The Rizzo brothers. They found us."
I nod, my throat tight. "You killed them. All three of them. But the last one...he got off a shot before he went down."
