It was a shit show when Aunt Flo showed up. I was in the middle of unpacking and had no freaking idea where my tampons were. I’m a heavy bleeder. It took me thirty minutes and half a toilet paper roll before I finally found the damn tampons.
I hear Luca take the stairs up to our bedroom.
Shit, the closet is a mess. He’s probably going to yell at me. I didn’t expect him home so soon, though. I check the time, noticing it’s only two pm.
Definitely not my fault he came home early.
He’s up there a while before he appears, dressed in a sweater and suit pants. Not even glancing my way, he heads straight for the kitchen.
I’m just about to start thinking he’s giving me the silent treatment when he asks, “Have you eaten anything today?”
He sounds tired, but at least he doesn’t look angry anymore.
Even though I’m cramping badly, I get up and walk closer to him. I extend an olive branch by being the first to apologize, “I’m sorry I snapped at you.”
Luca opens the fridge and starts to take ingredients out. “We’ve both had a shitty morning. Let’s leave it at that.”
Worry starts to niggle in the back of my mind. “I’ll leave a message next time. I was only out for fifteen minutes, and Ivan and Lev were with me.”
“It’s okay.”
My eyes search his face, noticing he looks pale. “What happened today?”
Luca only shakes his head and carries on prepping for a meal.
My legs feel numb, so I pull out a stool and take a seat at the marble island. I watch him work for a couple of minutes, loving the way he moves. “You can tell me anything.”
For a moment, his eyes flick to my face before he turns his back to me, dismissing me like he always used to do.
It hurts much more this time, the ache spreading through my heart worse than the period cramps.
Being overemotional also doesn’t help because a sudden rush of tears threatens to burst free.
Slipping off the stool, I go upstairs, scared I might actually cry today, which is not something I do often.
I put my heat pack on charge and go to the bathroom. After taking care of business, I wash my hands. A flash of red catches my eye and frowning, I crouch by the slim waste bin.
That’s not my blood.
I pinch the toilet paper with my fingers, and when I lift it, something falls from it. The metal pings on the tiles.
Jesus.
I pick up the bullet, the sight of it making an icy wave of fear rush through me.
Oh, Jesus.
I dart up and run out of the bathroom. I fly down the stairs, and it has Luca’s head snapping my way. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
I almost barrel into him, my eyes searching for the wound. “Where did you get shot?” Panic coats my voice as I start to tug at his sweater, yanking the fabric up and over his head.
“I’m okay,” he mutters, watching me as if I’ve lost my ever-loving mind.
My gaze locks on the white bandage wrapped around his bicep, and a wave of nausea threatens to hit. “Jesus, Luca,” I almost whimper, my heart stopping at the thought that if the bullet was a couple of inches to the right, I could’ve lost him.
The thought rips the ground beneath my feet.
Sure, I’ve grown up in the bratva, but none of the men I love have ever been shot.
That I know of.
As careful as I can, I remove the bandage with trembling fingers. My eyebrows draw together, and I swallow hard on the urge to cry when I see the swollen, red hole that’s still seeping blood.
A strangled whimper escapes me. “Where’s the first aid kit?”
“There’s a bag in the closet by my suits.” Luca wraps his right hand around the back of my neck before I can turn away from him. He locks eyes with me. “Deep breaths, amore mio. I’m okay.”
“You’re not! I could’ve lost you today,” I cry and quickly losing control over my emotions, I pull free and run up the stairs. I find the bag where Luca said it would be and bundle it into my arms.
Calm down. Your parents trained you for this. Get your shit together.
When I turn around, Luca comes into the bedroom, his features tight from exhaustion.
“Sit on the bed,” I order as I rush to him. I plant the bag on the covers, and opening it, I start yanking bandages, antiseptic wipes, and anything else I can get my hands on from the large first aid kit.
“You need stitches,” I gasp, my emotions spiraling. “It’s been years since my mom showed me.”
As part of my training, my parents taught me how to take care of wounds, but none of that prepared me for this.