Page 479 of Rosetti Family New York
Carmela doesn't hesitate. Her hands move to Emma's head wound, applying direct pressure exactly where I indicate. No fainting. No hysteria. Just steady competence that catches me off guard.
"Talk to her about the paintings," I order, checking Emma's pupil response. "Keep her conscious."
"Emma, tell me about that Rothko piece," Carmela says, her voice remaining calm even as blood seeps through her fingers. "The blue one you were so excited about."
Christ, she's not falling apart. Most civilians would be useless by now, but she's following every instruction with precision. When I point to her silk blouse, she doesn't ask questions—just tears strips from the expensive fabric without being told, fashioning bandages from what's available.
"Hold pressure here," I direct, positioning her hands at the exact points. "Don't let up, even if she tries to move."
Her hands remain remarkably steady despite the blood covering them, maintaining pressure while keeping Emma conscious through gentle conversation about the art surrounding them. She's moving with purpose even as violence echoes in the sudden silence, proving herself capable of protecting others when it matters.
The woman I came to protect is protecting someone else, and something shifts in my chest. This isn't the sheltered princess I thought I was dealing with. This is a partner.
The ambulance team confirms Emma is in stable condition as they load her for transport to the hospital. Police questioning remains brief—my military credentials and the Rosetti family's local connections minimize complications. The gallery owner closes early, leaves us alone to deal with the aftermath, understanding that some situations require privacy and discretion.
Once the sirens fade and the last official departs, adrenaline crash hits both of us simultaneously. My hands shake slightly as I process how close we came to losing someone. How close I came to losing her. The sudden, almost oppressive quiet of the damaged gallery space makes every sound amplified.
I find myself processing how Carmela handled the crisis—not as the victim needing protection I expected, but as a capable partner who rose to meet an impossible situation. She didn't wait for rescue or cower behind me. She actively participated in saving Emma's life with competence that matched my own training.
The shift in my perception is as dramatic as the attack itself. She's my equal in this moment, not someone to shield but someone to stand beside.
"You need to wash that blood off," I tell her, nodding toward the gallery's back office where I spotted a small utility sink.
In the storage room surrounded by wrapped paintings and office supplies, I watch Carmela methodically wash Emma's blood from her hands. The single desk lamp creates intimate lighting, making the small space feel separate from the violence we just survived.
"You were incredible out there," I say, my voice rough with admiration and leftover adrenaline.
She turns from the sink, still in her torn silk blouse, hair messed from the struggle, but her eyes are bright with something I've never seen before. Pride. Strength.
She's quiet for a long moment, then: “I always wondered what I'd do in a real crisis. If I'd freeze, or run, or fall apart.''
“And?”
“I didn't.” She turns to face me, and there's something new in her eyes—not just survival, but triumph. “I helped save someone's life today. With you.”
The word 'with' hangs between us, heavy with meaning.
Sexual tension builds between us like a fucking live wire. The primitive intensity of nearly losing each other, combined with seeing her handle life-or-death crisis with such competence, makes my cock hard despite the violence we just survived. Or maybe because of it. The primal need to claim, to confirm we're both alive and whole, thrums through my veins.
I step closer, backing her against the gallery desk. "I've seen trained soldiers freeze up in situations like that."
"I'm not most people." Her voice carries new confidence, the competence she just proved coloring every word. When her eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, I know she feels it too—this desperate need to confirm life through the most basic human connection.
"No," I agree, my hands finding her waist. "You're not."
When I lift her onto the desk, she doesn't resist. She spreads her legs to accommodate me, her torn skirt riding up her thighs.The sight of her like this—rumpled from violence but strong, unbroken—makes my cock throb against my zipper.
I claim her mouth with urgency that has nothing to do with mere attraction and everything to do with celebrating survival. My tongue pushes past her lips, tasting her, confirming she's real and safe and mine. She meets me with equal desperation, her hands fisting in my shirt as she pulls me closer.
"You saved her life," I growl against her lips, my hands already working at the torn silk of her blouse.
"We saved her life," she corrects, and the word 'we' sends heat straight through me.
I tear the ruined blouse open completely, buttons scattering across the concrete floor. Her bra is white lace, stained with drops of Emma's blood, and I hook my fingers under the cups to free her breasts. Her nipples are already hard, and when I roll one between my fingers, she arches into the touch with a gasp.
"Look at you," I say, my voice rough with need. "Fucking fearless."
My mouth moves to her throat, tasting salt and adrenaline as I work my way down to her chest. When I close my lips around one nipple, she makes a sound that goes straight to my cock—half moan, half demand. Her hands tangle in my hair, holding me against her as I suck and bite.
