[ALFIO'S POV]
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that makes your own heartbeat feel loud, like it's echoing against the walls.
I sat at the edge of my bed, shirt tossed aside, a fresh cotton swab in hand. The bottle of ointment sat beside me, and I stared at it like it might do the work on its own if I waited long enough.
I hissed as I dabbed the bruise on my side—dark, angry, and blooming like spilled ink across my skin.
"Goddamn it," I muttered under my breath. "What am I, a punching bag in Prada?"
I didn't even hear the door open.
Just the soft click, and suddenly the air shifted.
My hand froze.
I turned around—slowly—and there he was.
Salvo.
Leaning against the doorway with his hands shoved in his pockets like he hadn't bruised me up like a mafia version of Fifty Shades less than twelve hours ago.
"Sir," I blurted, leaping to my feet, clutching the ointment like a weapon. "You—you haven't left yet?"
He didn't answer immediately.
