Elena traces the outline of the scar, then trails her fingertips to a long, narrow scar under my left pec. “This one?”
“Knife fight. This Italian bastard stabbed me. I shot him in the face.”
“Good,” she mutters. “And these?”
She touches a series of small circular scars only partly disguised by the tattoos on my right arm. I glance down at them and wince, remembering that particular pain.
“Glass. Someone tried to shoot up the club, and a bullet shattered some glass and sent it flying. One of my men wasn’t as lucky as me … half his face was embedded with shards.”
“Jesus,” she whispers.
“I won’t pretend my life isn’t dangerous. But I’ve been hurt far worse than this. I’ve had concussions, been shot and stabbed, and I’ve been hit by three cars. Somehow, I’m still here. I figure that means I haven’t fulfilled my purpose yet. Or maybe I was supposed to live so I could find you.”
Elena nuzzles her nose into the side of my neck, then plants a kiss right over my pulse. “How do you do that?”
“Do what, gatita?”
“Make me forget what an asshole you are,” she replies, sounding genuinely surprised.
I bite back a laugh to keep from passing out from the pain. Reaching down her body, I deliver a sharp slap to her ass. “Simple. You love me. That’s how.”
She goes still against me, and her breathing stops for several seconds. I squeeze and stroke the ass cheek I just punished, then kiss the top of her head.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready to say it. You show me in your own way.”
“Hmm,” she murmurs sleepily into my chest. She mumbles something else, but I can’t make it out. My poor wife is exhausted and now that she knows I’m okay, fatigue is finally setting in.
Reaching for her blanket, I grunt at the pain it sends through me, but manage to cover us both with it.
“Sleep, gatita. I’m here … and I love you, too.”
27
Elena
Diego wastes no time getting back on his feet, no matter what I say to convince him to rest. A trip to his doctor’s clinic and a series of X-rays reveal there was no internal bleeding from the impact of the bullets into his vest. His shoulder sutures are holding up well, and there are no signs of infection. Dr. Molena left a bottle of pain pills that my idiot husband refuses to take. Once he’s strong enough to stand, he insists we go back to Indian Creek and stay there until the situation with the Armenians has been neutralized. I’ve been ordered to work from home for the time being, and I don’t rebel. Truthfully, every time Diego grimaces in pain or grunts at the stiff movement of his shoulder, I start to worry.
There’s no denying I’m a lost cause. This man has captured me, taken me from the life I used to know, and turned it all upside down. The thing about being flipped in what seems like the wrong direction is, eventually it starts to feel right. It becomes the truth, while the past becomes a lie. I don’t want to go back. The night Diego was shot I decided to stop deluding myself and accept that we belong to each other now.
He laid in my arms and told me he loved me. Maybe he thinks I didn’t hear him, since I was exhausted and half asleep when he murmured those shocking words. I can’t explain how it happened, or reason it out when it makes no sense. That doesn’t stop me from knowing its real.
I don’t have to tell Diego that I’ve given up all ideas of leaving him. He shows me he already knows that by easing up on his vigilance. I’ve left our penthouse several times for takeout and fresh gauze for his shoulder, and he never seems worried that I wouldn’t come back. Part of me—the last rational shred of my mind—insists he’s grown cocky. He thinks he’s pushed me so firmly under his thumb that he knows I wouldn’t dare cross him.
My heart tells me a different story. With the revelations of Diego’s past and the frightening reality of nearly losing him, came something I never thought we’d share.
Trust.
And because I trust him, my concern shifts away from his injuries and lands on worry over this mess with the Armenians. I don’t know all the ins and outs of this feud, but I learned from Diego that the other cartel started the war by