Mara's voice was sharp enough that Nico actually paused.
He stared at her, his dark eyes flashing with something that looked dangerously close to amusement. For a second, Mara thought he might refuse.
But then, slowly, he pushed off the wall and moved to one of the metal chairs, sitting down heavily.
Mara didn't give herself time to think about the fact that she had just ordered a Mafia boss around. She opened the metal cabinet, grabbed the first aid kit, antiseptic, and gauze, and brought it all to the table.
"Take off your jacket," she ordered.
Nico shrugged out of the ruined black suit jacket with a sharp wince. The white shirt underneath was soaked red on the left side, clinging wetly to his skin.
"Shirt too."
He reached for the buttons with his good hand, but his fingers were slippery with his own blood. He fumbled the first button.
"Let me," Mara murmured.
She stepped right in front of him, between his spread knees. Being that close to him was instantly overwhelming. The room smelled like gunpowder, but beneath that, he smelled like strong cologne, sweat, and pure male heat.
Her trembling fingers brushed against the hard planes of his chest as she undid the buttons one by one. She could feel his heart hammering against her knuckles.
When she pulled the shirt open and slipped it off his good shoulder, the breath caught in her throat.
His body was muscular, but not in the way that comes from spending time in a gym. He had wide shoulders, a chest that narrowed into a slim waist, and the kind of arms that made a person briefly forget what they were supposed to be doing.
There was a long, pale scar across his right side, a shorter one at his collarbone, and a third one that disappeared below his waistband.
She did not follow that one with her eyes.
'The shoulder,' she reminded herself. 'Just the shoulder.'
Mara forced her eyes to focus on the fresh bullet wound going across his shoulder. It was deep, but not deadly. The bullet had ripped through the outer muscle and kept going.
"You're lucky," she breathed quietly, her hands lingering on his warm skin just a second longer than necessary.
"I don't feel lucky."
She opened the first aid kit and pulled out the antiseptic and gauze. "This is going to hurt," she warned.
"It already hurts."
Mara poured the antiseptic directly onto a gauze pad and pressed it hard against the open wound.
Nico's entire body went rigid.
A sharp hiss escaped his teeth, his good hand gripping the edge of the metal table so hard his knuckles turned white, but he didn't pull away. Mara leaned in close to apply pressure, her face inches from his bare chest.
The air in the tiny room suddenly felt suffocatingly thick. The adrenaline from the shooting was melting straight into something entirely different. Every time he inhaled, his chest brushed against hers.
And the whole time, he watched her. Not the wound… her. His gaze dropped to her lips, tracking every shallow breath she took.
"Where did you learn to do this?" he asked quietly.
"My building didn't have a working elevator for four years. The nearest clinic was two bus rides away. You learn."
"Learn what? Field medicine?"
"How to survive." She tied off the bandage, her fingers brushing the nape of his neck, sending a visible shiver down his spine. She took a desperate step back, needing air. "There. That should hold until we get out of here."
Nico flexed his shoulder experimentally, but he didn't stop looking at her. "You didn't panic."
"What?"
"When the shooting started. You didn't scream. You didn't freeze. You just... moved."
"Panic gets you killed."
He studied her for a moment longer, the sexual tension shifting into an intense, curious thought. "Who taught you that?"
Mara turned back to the first aid kit, suddenly feeling far too exposed. She started repacking the supplies. "It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
She closed the kit with a snap and set it back on the table. "My uncle. He taught me a lot of things. Most of them the hard way."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Nico stood. He moved slowly, like a predator cornering its prey, carefully crossing the small space between them until he stopped directly in front of her. She was backed against the metal cabinet with nowhere to run to.
"Roll up your sleeves," he said quietly.
Mara froze. "What?"
"Your sleeves. Roll them up."
"Why?"
"Because I want to see."
Her pulse spiked. "There's nothing to see."
"Mara." His voice was soft… almost gentle, which made it far more terrifying. "Roll them up."
She hesitated. Then, slowly, she pushed up the sleeves of her black dress.
The scars were old and faded, but you could still see the thin, jagged white lines crisscrossing her forearms, forming patterns that told a very clear, violent story.
Nico's jaw tightened.
He didn't touch her; he just looked. For a long, quiet moment, the temperature in the room seemed to drop as his eyes darkened into something deadly.
Then his eyes flicked back to hers. "Your uncle," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
He nodded once, filing the information away like he was adding it to a mental ledger. The silence that followed was immediately broken by electronic beeps from the other side of the door.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Clack.
Mara jolted back from him.
Nico turned towards the door, his hand reaching for his gun on instinct. Only a handful of people were supposed to know about this safe room and even have the codes to it.
The heavy door swung open, and a woman stepped inside, sliding her phone back into her designer purse.
She looked like someone in her late twenties, tall and beautiful in the way that came from money and effort. Her black mourning dress was flawless. Her heels were Louboutin, and her dark hair was neatly styled in a bun.
She looked at Nico first, taking in his bare, bandaged chest. Then her cold eyes moved to Mara.
"Nico," the woman said in a smooth voice, dripping with ownership. "I heard you were shot. I came as soon as I could."
Nico didn't move. His lethal expression vanished, replaced instantly by an unreadable mask. "Carla."
Carla walked past Mara like she didn't exist. She reached up and touched Nico's bandaged shoulder, her perfectly manicured fingers resting on his bare chest like they had traced those muscles a thousand times before.
"You're bleeding through the gauze," she said softly. "Let me…"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." Carla's gaze finally turned back to Mara.
"You can leave now," Carla said. It wasn't a request… more like an order from a true Donna of the house. "I'll take care of my fiancé myself."