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-7

Tessa’s heart hammered against her ribs as she approached the desk. The medical kit was kept in a polished mahogany cabinet near the private washroom, a stash of emergency supplies left behind by Dr. Moretti for just such occasions. She retrieved the kit, opened it with trembling fingers, and pulled out antiseptic wipes, sterile gauze, medical tape, and a pair of surgical tweezers.

She walked back to the desk, standing directly beside Victor’s chair. Up close, the sheer physical scale of him was overwhelming. The muscled expanse of his chest and back radiated a tangible, heavy heat.

“Sit,” he instructed, gesturing to the burgundy velvet chair next to him.

Tessa sat down, pulling the chair close. “This is going to sting,” she warned, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve been shot, stabbed, and beaten with iron pipes, Tessa,” Victor muttered, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her face rather than the wound on his shoulder. “I think I can handle an antiseptic wipe.”

Tessa ignored his sarcasm, though a faint, nervous flutter danced in her chest. She carefully peeled back the blood-soaked gauze. The sight beneath made her stomach turn; the stitching was holding, but the skin around it was inflamed and angry.

She soaked a sterile pad in antiseptic solution and pressed it gently against the wound.

Victor didn't flinch, but his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked along his scarred cheek. His breathing hitched slightly, a low, controlled hiss escaping his lips.

“Sorry,” Tessa murmured, her fingers moving with surprising lightness and precision.

“Don't apologize for doing your job,” Victor said, his voice a low rumble. He reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping gently around her wrist to steady her hand as she applied a fresh layer of antibiotic ointment.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight up her arm. Tessa froze, her breath catching in her throat. She looked down at his hand gripping her wrist—the same hand that had signed death warrants, held smoking guns, and collected millions in debt. Right now, it held her with a careful, almost reverent gentleness.

“You’re shaking,” Victor noted, his dark eyes softening just a fraction.

“I’m not used to... treating men who make a living out of getting shot,” Tessa admitted honestly, her eyes meeting his.

“Most men in my position don't have anyone to treat them,” Victor replied, his voice dropping into a register of profound, lonely isolation. “They have doctors who patch them up like broken machinery and leave. They have enforcers who watch their backs out of fear. But they don't have anyone who gives a damn whether the stitches hold or not.”

Tessa felt a sharp pang of unexpected sympathy pierce her armor of survival. Beneath the terror, the syndicate leadership, and the myth of the untouchable mafia boss, there was a man who lived in a gilded cage of absolute, frozen solitude.

She carefully applied the sterile gauze and secured it with medical tape, her fingers lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary against his warm skin before she pulled back.

“There,” she said softly, packing the supplies back into the kit. “All done. But you aren't lifting anything heavy with that arm for at least a week, Mr. Romano. That’s my professional medical opinion.”

Victor let out a low, rich chuckle—a sound that rarely escaped him, transforming his harsh features into something dangerously attractive.

“Is that so, Dr. Moore?” he teased, standing up and pulling his black shirt back over his shoulder. “And what happens if I disobey my new medical advisor?”

“Then I’ll have to stitch you up again,” Tessa replied, her courage surprising even herself. “And I’m charging an hourly consulting fee.”

Victor stopped buttoning his cuff, staring at her with a look of absolute, consuming fascination. Before he could speak, however, a sharp, frantic knock rattled the heavy mahogany doors of the study.

The spell shattered instantly.

Victor’s face hardened back into stone. He buttoned his cuff, picked up his jacket, and barked, “Enter.”