Tender Wounds

Tender Wounds
Isabella’s POV

The crash still echoed in my ears, the silver candelabrum scattered across the floor like broken promises. My hand throbbed—hot, angry pain pulsing from the burn. Blisters bloomed red and raw on my palm, a physical echo of the hurt inside. I cradled it close to my chest, biting my lip to hold back the sting of tears.

Maria’s voice cut through the haze. “It was an accident, signore. The signora reached for a tray and brushed a candle. The candelabrum fell. No harm done—except to her hand.”

Giovanni’s presence filled the room like a storm cloud—dark, heavy, inescapable. I felt his eyes on me, but I kept mine down, staring at the wax splatters hardening on the marble. The air thickened. No one moved.

Then his footsteps—slow, deliberate—approached.

I tensed.

He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell his cologne—wood and spice, familiar and torturous.

“Isabella,” he said softly. “Let me see.”

His hand reached out, gentle, toward mine.

I jerked back instinctively, hiding my injured palm behind me. “No.”

Pain flashed in his eyes—brief, gone in a blink. He tried again, fingers brushing my arm. “Please. It’s burned.”

I pulled away sharper this time, stepping back until the sideboard dug into my hips. “I said no.”

Frustration flickered across his face. He sighed deeply, the sound heavy with something unspoken—regret? Annoyance? I couldn’t tell anymore.

“Everyone out,” he commanded, voice low but firm. No room for argument.

The maids scurried like mice—quick footsteps, hushed whispers, the door clicking shut behind them. Maria hesitated a second, her eyes meeting mine with concern, but even she left, pulling the heavy oak door closed with a soft thud.

We were alone.

The room felt smaller. Suffocating.

Giovanni turned to face me fully now, his broad frame blocking the light from the window. His eyes—those piercing blue eyes—searched my face, lingering on my lips, my cheeks, as if memorizing me all over again.

“Would you let me see your hand now, dearest?” he asked, voice gentler than I’d heard in days. Dearest. The word wrapped around me like silk, soft and unexpected.

I blinked, confused. My heart stuttered. Dearest? After last night? After know your place?

But I didn’t pull away when he reached this time. His fingers closed around my wrist—warm, careful—and drew my hand forward into the light.

The burn looked worse up close—skin blistered, red and angry. I winced as the air hit it.

Giovanni’s breath caught. “Merda,” he muttered under his breath. “Why didn’t you say something?”

I stared at him, the confusion swirling deeper. “It’s nothing. Just a burn.”

His thumb brushed the edge of my palm, feather-light, avoiding the wound. “Nothing? I hate to see you hurt like this.”

The words hung between us, sincere and raw. But doubt twisted in my gut. After everything—his cold words, his avoidance—how could he mean that?

I pulled my hand back slightly, testing. “You hate it? Really?”

He met my eyes, steady. “Yes. Really.”

I shook my head, the ache in my chest blooming fresh. “I don’t believe you.”

A small smile tugged at his lips—sad, almost. “I know you don’t. But it’s true.”

He released my hand gently and turned to the cabinet by the wall—one I hadn’t noticed before, hidden behind a tapestry. He pulled it open with ease, revealing shelves of supplies: bandages, ointments, scissors. A first aid kit, tucked away like so many secrets in this house.

Of course he had one here. In a mafia mansion, wounds were commonplace.

He brought it back, setting it on the side table with a soft clink. “Sit,” he said, nodding to a nearby chair.

I hesitated, but the pain won. I sat, watching him warily.

He knelt in front of me—Giovanni Donatelli, the ruthless mafia boss, on his knees before me. The sight made my breath hitch. His hands were steady as he opened the kit, pulling out antiseptic wipes, burn cream, gauze.

“This will sting,” he warned softly.

I nodded, bracing.

He cleaned the burn with careful dabs—cool cloth against hot skin. I hissed through my teeth, but he murmured apologies with every touch. “Shh, easy. Almost done.”

His voice was velvet—low, soothing. It wrapped around me, making my pulse flutter despite everything.

When he applied the cream, his fingers lingered, massaging it in with gentle circles. The coolness eased the fire, but his touch ignited something else—warmth spreading up my arm, into my chest.

“I can do this myself,” I said quietly, voice trembling just a little.

He looked up, eyes locking on mine. Intense. Unwavering. “I know you can. But I want to.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I would burn the world down just to make sure you’re okay.”

The words hit me like a wave—heart-fluttering, breath-stealing. Exaggerated and dramatic, but in his mouth, they felt real. True. My mind reeled. Burn the world? For me?

I stared at him, searching his face for lies. “You’re the only one who’s ever hurt me.”

The truth slipped out—soft, pained.

His expression cracked. Pain flashed deep in his eyes—raw, unguarded. He paused, fingers still on my hand, and for a moment, I saw the man beneath the armor. Vulnerable. Torn.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, acknowledging it. Accepting it.

Then he wrapped the gauze around my palm—careful layers, secure but not tight. His touch was reverent, like he was handling something precious. Breakable.

When he finished, he didn’t let go. Instead, he lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the bandaged palm.

My heart fluttered wildly—aww, the gentleness of it, the unexpected tenderness. It made my brain stop, thoughts scattering like leaves in wind.

Then he leaned in closer, his free hand cupping my cheek. His eyes searched mine—deep, stormy, full of things unsaid.

Before I could breathe, his lips met mine.

Long. Soft. Slow.

The kiss was everything—gentle pressure, tasting of whiskey and regret. His mouth moved against mine like a apology, like a promise. Heat bloomed in my chest, spreading sweet and warm. My heart raced, fluttering like wings against glass. Time stopped. The world narrowed to this—his lips, his breath mingling with mine, his hand steady on my face.

I melted into it despite myself. My uninjured hand rose to his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer. He deepened the kiss just a fraction—tongue brushing mine, soft and exploratory. It made my knees weak, even sitting.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his forehead rested against mine. Our breaths mingled, ragged.

“You’ll have to be brave tomorrow,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “In front of my family. They’ll watch you. Test you.”

I nodded, still dazed. Heart still fluttering.

“But I’ll be by your side,” he added, thumb stroking my cheek. “Always.”

With that, he stood—tall, composed again. He pressed one last kiss to my forehead—lingering, soft—then turned and left the room without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I sat there, stunned. Torn.

My bandaged hand tingled—not from the burn, but from his touch. My lips still felt his kiss—warm, real.

Did Giovanni really care for me?

The question swirled in my mind, heart-fluttering and awwn-worthy, but shadowed by doubt. After everything—the cold words, the secrets—could this be true? Or just another layer of the game?

I didn’t know.

But God, I wanted to believe.