EMILIO'S POV
Dante had offered him the room opposite his—clean sheets, warm lighting, a soft mattress—but it didn't feel right. It wasn't his room.
It wasn't his home. So, instead, he curled up on the couch inside Dante's room, a blanket tossed over his legs, the soft hum of the city through the window mixing with Dante's slow, pained breathing.
By the time morning came, the light filtering in was already high and golden. Both of them had slept far too long.
Emilio blinked awake, stretching out his legs and turning toward the bed.
Dante was still asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly, hair messy against the pillow. He looked paler than usual, the tension in his brow deeper.
"You look like hell," Emilio muttered under his breath and stood.
Dante stirred. "Then you must look worse if that's the first thing out of your mouth."
"You're hilarious." Emilio crossed his arms, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "You need a shower. And your meds."
Dante sat up slowly, groaning as the pain in his arm reminded him of reality. "I can walk."
"Not without help."
"Still not funny."
But Emilio moved closer, extending a hand. "Come on. I didn't help you to the bathroom yesterday. You need it now."
After a beat of hesitation, Dante placed his good hand in Emilio's and stood. Emilio slid his arm under Dante's back, steadying him. They moved slowly toward the bathroom, Dante cursing quietly under his breath.
Inside the bathroom, Dante reached for his shirt with his good hand but hissed in frustration.
"I've got it," Emilio said softly.
"You can leave. Let me do it myself."
"No," Emilio said firmly. "You can't pull your shirt off with one hand."
Dante glared but didn't argue.
With surprising ease, Emilio helped him peel off the T-shirt, then crouched to tug off the briefs and trousers, careful not to brush the stitched arm. His fingers were gentle, and his movements efficient.
Once Dante was naked, Emilio guided him into the tub, keeping the injured arm lifted out and placing a towel under it against the tub's rim.
"There. Don't get that bandage wet."
Dante leaned back slowly into the warm water, eyes flickering up at Emilio. "You're doing too much."
Emilio's gaze met his. "And you're not doing enough."
Emilio left the bathroom, resisting the urge to linger.
He didn't want to hover—Dante was stubborn enough without him standing over his shoulder.
But the truth was, Emilio couldn't keep staring at Dante's figure, the injured man looked like a Greek god fallen from war—bruised, scarred, his cock limp and still proud.
It stirred his cock. And he hated that it did.
He flopped back on the couch in the room, his mind on another thing to keep his erection from swelling. But not two minutes had passed when he heard Dante call faintly, "Emilio."
Emilio stood and paced back into the bathroom.
Dante had managed to bathe, water still dripping from his dark hair, his good arm gripping the edge of the tub. "There's a towel in the second cabinet," he muttered, breath shallow.
Emilio found it quickly and moved to help. As Dante rose carefully from the tub, Emilio stepped close, wrapping the soft towel around his waist. Dante held it there, one hand pressed flat to his abdomen, eyes averted.
Wordlessly, Emilio helped him back to the bedroom, guiding him with a hand at the small of his back. Dante pointed lazily toward a dresser. "Second drawer. Shorts and a vest."
Emilio nodded, grabbed the clothes, and handed them over. But Dante made no move to dress himself.
With a quiet breath, Emilio crouched, carefully helping Dante into the simple grey shorts, lifting the towel just enough to slide the fabric through. He handed Dante the vest next, helping him slip it over his head and past his injured arm with practiced ease.
Dante leaned back into the bed with a sigh and immediately reached for his phone from the nightstand. His attention was gone. His fingers danced over the screen without looking at Emilio once.
"You should take your meds," Emilio said, holding up the small bottle the doctor had left on the table.
"Not now..." Dante muttered without even glancing at him.
The dismissal hit harder than Emilio expected.
His jaw clenched. "Fine."
He dropped the bottle back on the table harder than necessary and turned toward the bathroom. He needed to wash off the night—and the look in Dante's eyes that made him feel like he was intruding.
Inside, the water was still warm. He took his time, letting it run over his shoulders, hands against the cool tile. When he stepped out again, towel around his waist, he reached for the fresh clothes Rossi had dropped off earlier—his own spare shorts and a loose black vest.
He walked back into the bedroom just as soft knocks sounded at the door. Dante's men had arrived. Emilio heard low voices and steps in the hallway, but he didn't move to open it.
Instead, he stood there, half-wet hair falling in his eyes, staring at Dante—who hadn't looked up from his phone once.
"What are they doing here?" Emilio's voice was sharp, his eyes snapping to the doorway where Dante's men lingered.
Dante didn't look up from his phone. "I invited them."
"Why the hell would you do that?" Emilio stepped closer, irritation rising in his chest.
Dante finally glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Because they're my men. And they have every right to see how their boss is doing—especially when he took a bullet."
Emilio clenched his jaw. "You could've said something."
Dante gave a slow, pointed look. "I didn't realize I had to start asking your permission in my own house."