Page 60 of Ruined By Capture

I set the clothes on the counter and peel off Alessio’s T-shirt, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I don't want to see myself right now. Don't want to look into the eyes of a woman who took a life today.

The shower turns on with a twist of a gold knob, water streaming from the ceiling. I step under the spray, the heat immediately enveloping me. The pressure is perfect—strong enough to massage my aching muscles but not painful against my tender skin.

I push my forehead against the cool glass wall, letting the water cascade down my back. The heat seeps into me, washing away the day's horrors—the gunshots, the blood, the look in that man's eyes as he fell. My tears mix with the shower water, indistinguishable as they circle the drain.

I don't know how long I stand there, letting the water pummel my shoulders. Long enough that my fingertips wrinkle and the bathroom fills with steam. Long enough that the memory of what happened today starts to feel like something that happened to someone else.

CHAPTER 20

Ipace the living room, a burner phone pressed against my ear. The ocean crashes against the cliffs outside, a rhythmic tempest that matches my mood.

"It's handled," Matteo says on the other end. "Car's being crushed as we speak. No prints, no DNA, nothing to trace."

"The bodies at the gas station?"

"Police have it as a robbery gone wrong. Security footage was wiped before we left. Far as anyone knows some junkies tried their luck and got shot by each other in the crossfire."

I run my thumb along my bottom lip, thinking. "And you're clean? No tail?"

"What do you take me for, a fucking amateur?" Matteo laughs. "I took three different routes, checked mirrors the whole way. We're good."

"Keep your phone close. I'll need you tomorrow."

After ending the call, I stand at the window, watching the darkness beyond the glass. The image of Melania firing that gun replays in my mind. The way her hands shook. The determination in her eyes.

She saved my life.

Antonio Lombardi's daughter put a bullet in a man to protect me.

I head to the guest bathroom, my body aching for hot water and soap to wash away the day's grime. Inside I strip off my clothes, wincing as the skin pulls around the bullet wound.

The shower starts with a blast of cold water that quickly turns scalding. Perfect. I step under the spray, letting it pound my shoulders. I brace my hands against the tile wall and Melania's face flashes behind my closed eyelids. The way she looked at me before I kissed her. The softness of her lips against mine. The gasp sound she made in the back of her throat when I pulled her closer.

Cazzo.

I grab the soap, working it over my skin more roughly than necessary. The memory of her firing that gun keeps interrupting my thoughts. The way her eyes stretched wide in shock. How her body trembled against mine as I carried her to the car.

She killed for me.For me.

Something shifts in my chest—a tightness I can't explain away. This woman has gotten under my skin in ways no one has since Violet. But Melania is nothing like Violet. Where Violet ran from the violence, Melania faced it head-on.

I turn my face into the spray. The realization hits with the force of a bullet—I don't want to give her back when this is over. Not to her brother. Not to anyone.

Mine. The thought rises unbidden, primal and possessive.

I get out of the shower and scrub dry my body. The clothes Damiano keeps at this safehouse fit well enough—dark jeans and a black Henley that's snug across my shoulders. Better than the blood-stained alternatives.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. I move out to the living area and pause, listening for the sound of the shower upstairs but hear nothing.

"Melania?" I call out, my voice echoing against the glass wall.

No answer. My hand instinctively moves toward my holster before I remember I left my gun on the kitchen counter. I move quickly through the house, checking rooms until I confirm she's still in the bathroom upstairs. The sound of water running reaches me now. Relief floods my system, followed immediately by irritation at my own reaction.

Since when do I panic over a woman taking a shower?

I head to the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator door. Damiano keeps this place well-stocked for emergencies—the shelves are filled with prepared meals in sealed containers. Pasta. Some kind of chicken. Lasagna. All need just a few minutes in the microwave.

My stomach growls, reminding me we haven't eaten since those cans at the warehouse. I pull out the lasagna and chicken, setting them on the counter. Food first, then we'll figure out our next move.

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