Chapter 22 A Wound and a Warning
••Luciana••
“How did it happen?” Roman’s voice barely rises above a whisper, yet it hits me like a command.
He stands so close the air around us feels guarded, like even oxygen needs permission to touch me.
“I didn’t see his face,” I breathe out. “He wore a mask. He grabbed me from behind before I could turn.”
My fingers tremble, just a bit—not enough to be considered fear, but just enough to be bothersome.
Roman’s gaze shifts to my arm. The cut isn’t deep, but blood trickles down my skin in a thin, red line.
“Is that the only injury?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m not fragile,” I shoot back.
His jaw flexes. Maybe he wants to argue. Maybe he wants to shake me. Maybe both.
“We need to exit without drawing attention,” he states, stepping closer. “Just hold on… I’ll support you.” He wraps an arm around me, guiding me toward the exit with gentle pressure, as if I might collapse. Absurd. Yet, I don’t pull away.
Outside, lights spill onto the pavement, and faint music wafts from the venue. No one seems to notice or suspect anything amiss.
Roman gives a slight nod, and Theo and the others emerge from the shadows instantly. Their formation closes around us, creating a silent barrier.
In no time, we’re in the car, speeding away..
\---
••Roman••
She tries to play it cool, but I can see her breathing—too shallow, too strained. Her fingers rest on the cut, as if she’s annoyed that it even exists.
“We’re going to the hospital,” I say.
“No.”
“Luciana.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
“That scratch was made by someone who tried to kill you.”
She rolls her eyes, an infuriating gesture. “And sitting in a hospital is better than going home?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
I exhale slowly, counting to three before I lose patience.
“You were ambushed in a restroom. Stop downplaying it.” I say. “We need to check for any other injuries.”
“There are no other injuries,” she retorts. “If they were I'd know.”
“You didn’t even notice the cut until I pointed it out.”
“That doesn’t count. I was busy trying not to stab him.”
“That’s exactly why—”
“If my family finds out I’m in the hospital, what do you think they’ll assume?” she shoots back vehemently.
Her words hit me harder than I expected. “I…”
“Well?” She angles toward me expectantly.
I look out the window, fighting logic and instinct.
She’s right. Her father would declare war before morning.
“We’re going home,” I say quietly.
She leans back, a look of victory on her face.
I know I shouldn’t say anything more, or else I’ll completely lose it..
\---
As we pull into the driveway, the house stands serene, warm light spilling from the windows. Neither Mother nor Mildred is aware of what transpired. Good. There’s no need for panic tonight.
The instant we step inside, Mother’s eyes widen at the sight of blood on Luciana’s sleeve.
“What is this? Are you hurt?” she asks, moving closer.
“It’s fine,” Luciana tries to reassure her.
“It is not fine,” I interject.
Mildred arrives next, a gasp forming in her throat. “Is that blood? Roman, what—”
“I’ll explain later,” I reply. “Just have a nurse sent over.”
In minutes, a private nurse arrives, quietly unpacking her kit. Luciana sits on the edge of the bed, her shoulders tense as the nurse cleans and bandages the cut.
I stand by the door, observing her closely. I notice the subtle tremor in her fingers that she tries to conceal. I see her eyelashes flutter each time the antiseptic stings, and I watch her fight sleep as if it were an enemy.
An hour passes. Maybe more.
Eventually, exhaustion slips through her defenses. Her breathing steadies, her shoulders relax. She falls asleep, softening against the pillow, as if the fierce Sicilian princess within her has stepped aside, allowing a gentler version of herself to surface.
I’ve never seen her like this, and an unfamiliar sensation coils in my chest.
If that bastard hadn’t slipped away…
My fists tighten until my knuckles ache.
\---
Father is sitting in his office when I walk in, looking up just briefly. His eyes take in my stance, the tension in my shoulders, and the blood staining my shirt.
“Report,” he instructs.
“She was attacked in the restroom,” I start, urgency rising in my voice. “The assailant was masked, quick, and skilled enough to approach her without drawing attention.”
He shifts in his chair, leaning back a fraction. “And?”
“He slashed her arm. Thankfully, it’s not life-threatening. I arrived before he could inflict any worse harm.”
His gaze sharpens, piercing through me. “Did you capture him?”
“No. He got away.”
Father mutters something in a low voice—an old, angry curse in Russian that hangs in the air. I pull out the knife I found and place it on his desk, feeling the weight of the moment.
“Found this on the floor. It must have dropped during the struggle.”
He picks up the knife, examining it closely. He turns it once and then again, the emblem on the handle catching the soft light.
A wolf's head. Silver-lined. Snarling.
Father freezes, recognition flashing across his face.
“That’s Valerio,” he states flatly.
My jaw clenches tightly at the name.
“We need to act swiftly,” I insist. “Before this situation spirals out of control.”
“It already has,” Father counters, his tone laced with gravity.
A heavy silence hangs between us.
I continue, “We ramp up security. At the house, around the perimeter, and specifically around her.”
Father meets my gaze, his voice unwavering. “This was a message. We must send one in return.”
I feel heat rise along my spine, but I refuse to mask the cold steel in my tone.
“They won’t lay a finger on her again. Not while I'm still breathing.”