Page 43 of Ruined By Capture

This isn't just a step down from the previous safehouse—it's a plunge into a chasm.

"It's fine," I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. "As long as Raymond can't track us here."

Alessio crosses to the security monitors tucked in a corner, checking camera feeds of the perimeter. His movements are precise but I notice the stiffness in his left arm where the bullet grazed him.

"We should get back to work," I say, setting down the new equipment. "The sooner we crack that drive?—"

"Not tonight." Alessio cuts me off with a shake of his head. "We need sleep. Start fresh tomorrow."

I want to argue but exhaustion weighs on my limbs like concrete. My brain feels foggy, and attempting complex cryptography in this state would be dangerous.

"You're right," I concede. "We need clear heads for this. Especially now that we know what we're up against."

Alessio nods, his face half-illuminated by the dim bulb. "Raymond's not going to stop. We need to stay mobile, change locations frequently."

"That complicates things." I twist my mother's ring, considering the implications. "I'll need to adjust my approach to the security protocols. Maybe work in shorter bursts, backup more frequently."

"That's exactly what we're going to do," he confirms. "Damiano's arranging a rotation of safe houses. We won't stay anywhere more than forty-eight hours."

My eyes drift to the bloodstain on his sleeve, now dried to a rusty brown.

"First things first," I say, moving toward him. "I need to look at your wound."

Alessio dismisses me with a wave. "I'm fine. It's just a graze."

"Take off your shirt."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Acting like a baby won't help either of us," I say, crossing my arms. "You're bleeding and if that wound gets infected we're both screwed. So take off your shirt and let me clean it properly."

For a moment we're locked in a silent battle of wills. His jaw tightens and I can see him weighing his options.

"Fine," he finally growls, reaching for the hem of his shirt.

I search the makeshift living area, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting as I look for anything useful to treat Alessio's wound.

"Is there a first aid kit somewhere?" I ask, opening cabinets and drawers in the tiny kitchen area.

"Under the sink," Alessio replies, his voice pinched with pain he's trying to hide.

I find a battered metal box with a faded red cross on it. Inside are the basics—gauze, tape, antiseptic wipes and a half-empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Not ideal, but it will have to do.

"We need to clean it first," I say, more to myself than to him. "I need hot water."

I grab a small pot from beside the hot plate and fill it from the sink. The water sputters out rust-colored at first, and I let it run until it clears before filling the pot. I set it on the hot plate and turn the dial to high.

"This might take a while," I say, scanning the area for anything else useful. I spot a stack of threadbare towels on a shelf and grab the cleanest-looking one.

When I turn back to Alessio the words die in my throat.

He stands in the center of the living space, shirtless under the single hanging bulb. My breath hitches to a gasp involuntarily.

His torso is a masterpiece of strength carved from olive skin—wide rounded shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined muscles that shift with each slight movement. But what truly captures my attention are the scars—a roadmap of violenceetched across his body. A jagged line runs along his left ribs. A circular pucker marks his right shoulder—an old bullet wound. Smaller marks, too numerous to count, tell stories of fights, knives, and dangers I can't imagine.

This isn't the sculpted perfection of a man who works out for vanity. This is the body of a warrior, shaped by survival and violence.

The bullet graze on his upper arm has torn through skin and muscle, leaving a raw, angry furrow about three inches long. Blood has dried in flaking rivulets down his arm but fresh crimson still seeps from the wound.

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