Chapter 7 - The Crimson Varnish
By 4:00 a.m., the penthouse was a silent, blood-stained crime scene being quietly cleaned by Gabriel's private medical and cleanup crew.
No police arrived. No sirens echoed in the street. In Gabriel's world, problems were solved, paid for, and erased before the sun rose.
Silvio Moretti and his surviving men had been removed in unmarked vans. The shattered glass was being swept up by silent men in dark uniforms, and a private surgeon—a gray-haired Swiss doctor named Dr. Marcus—was finishing up in Gabriel's master bedroom.
I sat on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, wearing an oversized black shirt belonging to Gabriel, watching the doctor bandage Gabriel's chest.
The bullet had passed cleanly through the fleshy tissue above his ribs without hitting any vital organs or bone, but he had lost a terrifying amount of blood. He was propped up against dark silk pillows, his chest bare, showcasing the full tapestry of black ink covering his torso—and the fresh, white surgical dressing taped tightly over his left ribs.
"He needs rest, Miss Vance," Dr. Marcus said quietly, packing his medical bag. "No sudden movements for three weeks. I've administered a heavy antibiotic and a mild sedative."
"Thank you, Doctor," I whispered.
The doctor left, closing the heavy oak bedroom door softly behind him.
The quiet returned, thick and intense.
I stood up, walking slowly to the side of the bed.
Gabriel opened his eyes. The dark fog of the pain medication was there, but beneath it burned that same sharp, unshakeable focus that had terrified me in the hallway four weeks ago.
"Is the painting okay?" he rasped out, his voice rough and dry.
I gasped out a breathless, tearful laugh. "You almost died, Gabriel! You took a bullet for me, and your first question is about an old Venetian canvas?"
"You worked on it for two weeks," Gabriel said quietly, his dark gaze holding mine. "I wasn't going to let those bastards ruin your work."
I sat on the edge of the mattress, taking his warm, scarred hand in both of mine. I pressed his knuckles against my cheek, closing my eyes as the remaining tension finally drained from my body.
"The Bassano is fine," I whispered against his skin. "I moved it into the study safe room before the doctor arrived. Not a single flake of paint was damaged."
Gabriel’s thumb moved slowly across my cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear.
"And you?" he asked softly. "Are you fine, Elena?"
I opened my eyes, looking down at this terrifying, powerful man who had bought an apartment building to protect me, who had turned his home into an art studio for me, and who had stepped in front of a bullet to keep me alive.
"I'm not going anywhere, Gabriel," I declared softly, my voice filled with a quiet, unyielding conviction that surprised even myself. "Moretti is finished. My father's debts are paid in blood. But I'm staying right here."
Gabriel’s eyes softened, a deep, beautiful warmth filling their dark depths.
"Even without the bunny slippers?" he teased gently.
May you like
"I might keep the slippers," I smiled through my tears, leaning down until my forehead rested gently against his uninjured shoulder. "They give me authority."
Gabriel chuckled softly, his left arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me close against his side. "Then keep them, my sweet restorer. You command this house now anyway."
