Chapter 8 - The Dragon's Hearth
"Are you hurt?" Victor’s voice was rough, gravelly, cracking with a frantic vulnerability that shattered his untouchable persona entirely. His hands—hands that had ordered the destruction of empires—hovered over her body with trembling, terrified gentleness, afraid that touching her might break her fragile form. "Scarlett... tell me where you're hurt."
"I'm fine," she sobbed, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling herself flush against his hard chest. "I'm okay, Victor... you came back. You came back."
Victor wrapped his powerful arms around her, pulling her small body into his lap on the wet pavement, burying his face in the curve of her neck. He held her so tightly she could barely breathe, his entire body shuddering with the terrifying realization of how close he had come to losing the only light in his dark, hollow world.
"I will kill them all," Victor whispered into her hair, his voice vibrating with a dark, absolute vow. "Every single person who looked at you tonight. I will burn Dominic Rossi's world to ash."
Scarlett pulled back slightly, her hands cupping his cold, sharp jawline, forcing him to look into her eyes.
"Not tonight," she murmured softly, her fingers tracing the tense muscle in his cheek. "Tonight, take me home."
Ten minutes later, the alleyway was swarming with Victor’s men, led by Marcus, who moved with silent, efficient precision to clean the scene and track down Dominic Rossi’s hideouts.
Victor personally carried Scarlett into the back of his armored SUV. He didn't take her to her small apartment in East Ridgewood, nor did he take her to a hospital. He took her to his fortress—the penthouse high above the city skyline.
Inside the sprawling, firelit living room, Victor sat Scarlett down on a soft velvet sofa. He brought out a bowl of warm water, clean towels, and medical ointment.
He knelt on the hardwood floor between her knees, just as he had done on the wet asphalt. Without a word, Chicago's most dangerous mob boss gently lifted her foot, resting it on his knee, and began cleaning the scraped skin of her ankles and hands with painstaking, reverent care.
Scarlett watched him in silence. The firelight flickered across his sharp features, casting long shadows against the polished steel walls.
"You should have let me stay in my lane, Victor," Scarlett said softly, her voice breaking the quiet room. "If I had just swallowed my pride and accepted cold coffee three weeks ago, none of this would have happened to you."
Victor stopped wiping her skin. He slowly looked up at her, his dark eyes soft and overflowing with a profound, unshakeable devotion.
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"If you hadn't told me to drink it somewhere else, Scarlett," Victor murmured, his hand gently sliding up to rest on her cheek, "I would have died a dead man sitting in a charcoal suit. You woke me up. You gave me a reason to breathe again."
Scarlett leaned down, her lips brushing softly against his in a kiss that tasted of rain, fire, and absolute surrender.
