Open Wounds

Open Wounds
Isabella’s POV

We didn’t speak until the bedroom door clicked shut behind us. The corridor’s distant murmurs faded, leaving only the soft thud of my heart and the faint metallic scent of blood on his skin.

I took his hand—careful of the split knuckles—and led him to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

He did, without resistance. The powerful man who had just thrown punches across a dining table looked suddenly smaller, shoulders heavy with something deeper than bruises.

I left him there and went to the bathroom. My reflection stared back—pale, eyes too bright—but I ignored it. I gathered the first-aid kit, antiseptic, cotton, ointment, bandages. My hands were steadier than my heart.

When I returned, Giovanni watched me in complete silence. His blue eyes tracked every movement—kneeling in front of him, opening the kit, tearing a wipe packet with my teeth. He didn’t flinch when I pressed the cool antiseptic to the cut above his eyebrow.

“You’re angry,” he said quietly. It wasn’t accusation. Just fact.

I didn’t answer. Focused on dabbing away dried blood, revealing the clean slice beneath.

He let the silence stretch, then tried again. “You’re upset with me, aren’t you?”

I paused, met his gaze for the first time since we’d left the dining room. “It’s fine,” I said, voice low. “You were defending me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I sighed, set the wipe aside, and took his right hand—the worst one. The knuckles were raw, skin broken in three places. “This will sting.”

“I’ve had worse.”

I cleaned it anyway, slow and careful. He didn’t move, but I felt him watching, waiting.

“Isabella,” he said softly, “I know you’re upset. Won’t you tell me about it? Please.”

The please undid me a little.

I finished with the antiseptic and reached for the ointment. “I didn’t want to bring it up tonight,” I admitted. “Not after everything downstairs. But… why do you have to suffer like this, Giovanni?”

He frowned. “Suffer?”

I looked up. Held his gaze. “I see it. I’ve seen it for months. You don’t want this life anymore.”

The air shifted. His whole body went still.

“You’re sick of it,” I continued, voice gentle but steady. “The blood. The fighting. The endless games. You don’t want to be Don. You don’t want to be mafia.”

He shot to his feet so fast I nearly dropped the ointment. In three long strides he was at the door, turning the lock with a sharp click that echoed like a gunshot.

He leaned his forehead against the wood for a second, breathing hard.

“Be careful what you say in this house,” he said without turning. His voice was low, strained. “These walls remember everything.”

I stayed on my knees by the bed. “I’m not saying it to the walls. I’m saying it to you.”

He turned then. His face was pale, eyes stormy. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know more than you think.” I stood slowly, closing the distance. “I see you, Giovanni. When we’re together—really together, when you let the mask slip—I see how tired you are. How much you hate what this life demands of you.”

He backed away until his shoulders hit the wardrobe, arms crossed like a shield. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.” My voice cracked. “Your eyes don’t lie. Not to me. Not when you’re inside me, holding me like I’m the only real thing left in your world. I see the way you look at the blood on your hands afterward—like you’re drowning and no one’s throwing you a rope.”

He flinched as if I’d struck him.

“Isn’t that why you push me away?” I pressed, softer now. “Why you said those things—arranged bride, know your place? Because if you let me in, really let me in, you’d have to admit you want out. And that terrifies you.”

His jaw worked. No answer.

“What are you so scared of?” I whispered. “Losing control? Losing the familia? Or losing me if you admit you’re human?”

He stared at me—raw, exposed, like I’d peeled back every layer he’d spent a lifetime building. No one had ever reached this deep. I could see it in the tremor of his hands, the way his throat bobbed.

“I’m not some fragile thing you have to protect from everything,” I said. “I’m not that good. Not that naïve. Not innocent. I’ve lived in this world long enough to know what it costs.”

His eyes glistened—actual moisture. He blinked it away fiercely.

I realized, too late, how deeply I’d cut. This man—hard, unbreakable on the outside—was exquisitely sensitive underneath. Every word had landed like salt in an open wound.

Guilt flooded me. I cursed myself silently. Stupid. Cruel.

I closed the last step between us and wrapped my arms around him—gentle, careful, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against his chest. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I see you suffering alone, and it breaks me.”

He stood rigid for a heartbeat. Then his arms came around me—slow, crushing, like he was afraid I’d vanish.

“Don’t,” he rasped, voice breaking on the single word. “Don’t apologize.”

I felt the tremor run through him. His face pressed into my hair, breath ragged.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” he said, words muffled against my neck. “I’m the one at fault. I brought you here. Dragged you into this nightmare. For duty. For an heir. For my father’s approval I’ll never get.”

His voice cracked again. “I took your freedom. Your choices. And then I hurt you—over and over—because I’m too much of a coward to let you close.”

I pulled back just enough to cup his face. His eyes were blood shot and so sad. The sight undid me completely.

“You’re not a coward,” I said fiercely. “You’re the strongest man I know. And you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

He searched my eyes, desperate. “How can you say that? After everything I’ve done?”

“Because I see you,” I whispered. “All of you. The lies, the monsters, the fears. And I love you anyway.”

The confession hung between us—raw, trembling.

His breath hitched. He closed his eyes, forehead dropping to mine.

“I don’t deserve it,” he said, voice barely audible. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” I insisted. “You deserve to be free. To be happy. To be loved.”

He made a sound—half sob, half groan—and pulled me close again, arms tightening until I could feel his heart hammering against mine.

“I’m so tired, Isabella,” he confessed into my hair. “So damn tired of pretending I want this.”

“I know.”

We stood like that for what felt like hours—wrapped together in the dim room, breathing each other in. His hands stroked my back, my hair, like he was memorizing the feel of me.

Eventually, he pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Even if I don’t deserve it. Stay.”

I nodded, tears slipping down my own cheeks now. “Always.”

And in the quiet aftermath, with his wounds still half-treated on the bed behind us, I felt something shift—heal, maybe—between us.

For the first time, we weren’t hiding.

We were just two broken people choosing each other anyway.