Adriana's POV
I didn't wipe it off.
Alessio's blood dried on my mouth while I changed. Black pants. Black shirt. Both too big, both soft, both smelled like him. Like smoke and expensive soap and something darker underneath. He'd bought them for me. Planned for this. Planned for this.
He didn't watched me changing. He stood at the broken door, gun up, guarding a room with three bodies in it. Guarding me.
But I watched him.
The fresh shirt clung to his back, already darkening. Three bullet wounds. He said through and through like it was nothing.
Like his body wasn't failing him one drop at a time.
"Done," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt.
He turned, his dark eyes dragged over me. From the boots I'd found– which were surprisingly also my size– to the oversized black shirt I'd rolled at the sleeves, all the way up to my mouth. He stopped there.
"You heard me?" He sounded harsh.
"I heard." I lifted up my chin."But I didn't agree."
Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or approval. With a man like him, they looked exactly the same.
"Then let's go." He grabbed a second gun from the weapon's wall and tossed it. I caught it by pure instinct. It was heavier than my expectation. Cold. Final.
"That one's yours. Don't lose it."
"I don't know how to–"
"You will." He was already moving past the bodies, heading straight through the door. "Stay right behind me. Three steps. No more, no less. If I go down, you run. Understood?"
No. I didn't understand anything. Not how he was still walking with three bullets inside him. Not why my heart was trying to beat right out of my chest for a man who had kidnapped me into a forced marriage less than twelve hours ago.
But I followed. Three steps behind. I held the gun in both hands exactly the way he'd shown me without showing me.
The hallway was empty. Too empty. The Morettis wanted us to move. They wanted us scared.
We made it to the stairs. Down one flight. Two. My legs burned with every step. His must have significantly worse, but he didn't stop. He didn't even slow down.
A sudden shadow shifted at the bottom of the stairwell.
Alessio didn't hesitate. He fired. Once. The shadow to the concrete with a wet thud.
"Four," he said flatly, as if he was counting. Like this was just simple math to him.
We stepped right over the fresh body. I didn't look down. I looked at Alessio's back instead. At the way his black shirt stuck to his damp skin. At the way his left arm hung completely useless at his side now. The shoulder wound. He was rapidly running out of the time.
The underground garage was freezing cold, smelling of concrete, motor oil and old gasoline. A row of black cars gleamed under the fluorescent lights. All of them identical. All armored, probably. All his.
He hit a button on a key fob. One of the cars beeped in response. "Get in. The passenger seat."
I did. The leather was freezing cold through my pants. He slid heavily into the driver's seat and slammed the door behind him. For a split second, we just sat there in the dark, breathing. The sound of our lungs explanding felt too loud in the tight space.
He started the car, and the powerful engine roared to life. Then he looked at me. Really looked.
"Give me your hands."
"What?"
"Give me your hand, principessa. Now."
I gave it to him. It was stupid, but I did it anyway.
He took my fingers and pressed my palm flat against his bare chest, right over his heart under the torn shirt. His skin was on fire, slick and wet with blood. His heart hammered against my hand like it wanted out.
"Feel that?" He asked with his low, dangerousvoic. "That's yours now. You said 'mine', so it's yours now. You break it, you bought it."
My throat closed up. "Alessio–"
"So you don't get to die." He let go of my hand but I didn't pull it back. I Couldn't. "And you don't get to let me die. Not until I say so."
He threw the car in the drive and slammed his foot down on the gas. We peeled out of the garage, tires screeching, and burst into the night.
The city became a blur outside the window. We took corners too fast. He drove entirely with one hand, the other arm firmly pressed his wound. Every time he shifted gears, his jaw locked tight.
"You need a hospital," I said.
"I need my father." He cut a sharp look at me. "And you need to learn to shoot."
He reached across me, popped out the glove box, pulling out another gun. It was smaller. He dropped it directly in my lap.
"Safety's on that one. For now." He nodded towards the street ahead in the rearview mirror. A black SUV was maintaining a steady pace with us, two cars back. "Moretti's men. They've been on us since we left the garage."
My stomach plummented. "There's more?"
"There's always more." He took a sudden side street. The SUV followed smoothly. "They won't shoot while we're moving. Too public. They'll wait until we stop."
"So we don't stop."
He smiled. A real smile this time, sharp and bloody. "Smart wife."
He drove for another twenty minutes, maybe thirty. The cityscape slowly gave us the way to industrial warehouses and aark streets with no cameras. To the kind of place bodies disappears without a trace.
He finally stopped the car behind the shipping container. Killed the engine. Silence crashed in.
He turned to me. His face was turning a sickly gray now, his lips pale. He was running on nothing but pure rage and sheer will.
"Get out," he said.
I did. He followed, his movements slow. Too slow. He leaned heavily against the car door for half a second before he caught himself and forced his posture straight.
The SUV rolled into view at the end of the alley. It's headlights cut out, and it came to a halt. Four men got out.
Alessio pushed off the car. He deliberately stepped between me and them, placing himself exactly where he always did–between me and death.
"De Luca," the man in front called. Older. Scared. "We just want to talk."
"Then talk," Alessio said. His gun was up. Steady, but I saw the slight tremor in his forearm. It was the only tell his body would give them.
"You're looking for your daddy." The man smiled, a greasy look that didn't reach his eyes. "We can take you to him. No more blood. Just give us the girl."
Alessio laughed. There was no humour in the sound, just the sharp edge of a blade. "You want my wife?"
"She's not your until you consummate the marriage, De Luca. That's the law. Morettis law." The man's gaze cut past Alessio to lock onto me, landing on my mouth, targeting the dried blood still staining my lips there. "Unless you have already marked her. Did you? In all that blood?"
I went completely cold.
Alessio didn't look back at me. Didn't flinch. He just shifted his weight, putting more of his large body infront of mine .
"She's mine," He said. It was quiet. A vow. A war. "Law or no law."
"Prove it." The man tossed something forward. The heavy knife dropped at Alessio's feet. "Mark her now. Infront of us. Or we take her, and you never get to see your father again."
Alessio looked down at the knife on the asphalt, the finally turned his head to look at me. He picked up the knife, flipping it smoothly in his hand.
The smaller gun from the glovebox was still in my lap. Loaded. The safety was on, but my thumb knew where the switch was. He'd made sure of that.
"Shoot me, wife," He said. His voice soft, as if it was a love word. "Or shoot them."
He deliberately stepped back. Raising his hands. Leaving me completely exposed, with me and his knife in one hand, his gun in other, four men watching to see what I would do next.
"Your choice." Alessio said.
My fingers found the trigger .