Page 20
Izzy folds her arms. “Also, it’s about time I get to enjoy the sight of you falling for a woman who scares you a little.”
“I didn’t fall for anyone.”
Sophia laughs. “Sure.”
I keep my face neutral, but internally, my heart beats at a sprinter’s pace.
Lucia’s coming here. As my thoughts spiral, I leave the two women in the hallway and rush to my quarters.
I take a quick shower and change into fresh clothes, then straighten the bed, tidy up some loose belongings, and ensure that my weapons are locked in the wall safe. I also rearrange the few framed photos from my fighting days that line the shelf. As I wait for Lucia to arrive, I distract myself by sitting at my desk and reading through files on the Volkovs.
Time dissipates into an undefined stretch until a knock raps me back to reality.
Lucia Romano stands in the doorway in wrinkled trousers and a beige button-down blouse. Her medical bag hangs over her shoulder, and her eyes carry equal parts exhaustion and stubbornness. Her hair has escaped whatever discipline she tried to impose on it with the ponytail. Those green irises, deep and vivid as uncut emeralds, lift to mine.
For what seems like a long second, neither of us moves, not until I shake my head free of the cobwebs that have snagged my thoughts.
“What are you doing here?”
She shrugs a noncommittal shoulder. “Your…boss called me. Said you reopened your wound.” She brushes past me without waiting for permission.
I close the door, hyperaware that we’re alone in my bedroom.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“I’m a doctor.” She sets her medical bag on the kitchenette counter and unzips it, removing gloves, gauze, and a small antiseptic bottle. She lines them up with the practiced efficiency of a woman who could set up a trauma bay blindfolded. Then she spins back around and nods toward the bed. “Over there. Sit on the edge. I need the natural light from the window.”
I cross the room and lower myself onto the edge of the mattress. She follows, snapping on gloves as she walks and stopping between my knees.
“So you now care if I live or die, Dottoressa Ghiacciata?”
Her hands still.
“Dottoressa what?”
“Ice Doctor. It suits you. All that cold professionalism.”
She levels me with a look so astringent it could sterilize. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re beautiful even while you’re annoyed.”
She grits her teeth and accidentally presses her fingers to the stitches until I hiss.
“Is this care or torture? I thought there would be a warmer side to you now that you’re in my territory.”
“If you behave, I might show you warm,” she warns, though the corner of her mouth betrays her.
She finishes in silence, taping fresh gauze with efficient hands. Then she peels off the gloves and drops them into the bin, the professional armor going with them. She suddenly feels different, more vulnerable and maybe more human.
“Care for a drink?”
She hesitates, her gaze sweeping the room like she’s calculating exit routes. “One glass.”
I’m surprised by the yes, but I hide it. When I walk over to pour her a glass, I sense that she’s standing at my desk, where highly confidential files are still scattered all over the wood. The Volkov Bratva logo is stamped boldly on the top folder.
I spin back around, but seeing her tense body causes me to realize that the damage is done.
“These files…”
