When He Takes: A Dark Mafia Romance (Fallen God Book 2)

When I wake up, everything hurts.

“Blake?”

It sounds like Nero, but that can’t be him. He couldn’t have gotten rid of the pakhan’s men that fast.

My fingers twitch, searching for the gun that must have slipped from my grasp when I fell. Instead, they curl around soft fabric.

Where am I?

My eyes crack open, and the light is blinding. I groan. Something nearby is beeping.

I blink until the brightness dulls enough for me to see.

Nero’s face comes into focus.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice ragged. “Thank fucking God.”

He presses his lips to my forehead, my brows, my cheeks. His hands wrap around mine, warm and comforting. “You have no idea how worried I was about you.”

I look past him, confused. What is this place? The walls are stark white, bare except for a clock ticking above the door, but there are flowers lined up on the windowsill. Beside me, a machine beeps rhythmically, and there’s a tube taped to my arm.

A hospital.

I swallow. My throat is dry and raw. Flashes of a memory hit me. Flashes of the last time I woke up in a place like this. The motorbike accident was years ago, but I still remember the aftermath clearly. The pulsating pain at the back of my head. The cast on my leg itching like crazy. My mom crying by my bedside while my father told her to shut up and stop making a scene.

“Sunshine, how do you feel?” Nero’s thumb brushes gently over the top of my hand.

“How did I get here?” Mentally, I’m still in that bathroom, the floor spinning beneath my feet, Ekaterina pointing her gun at me.

Pain.

Then red, so much red.

I look down at myself, but I can’t see my abdomen under the hospital gown and the blanket over me.

I try to sit up.

Oof. Big mistake.

Nero springs to his feet, his hands on my shoulders. “Careful, baby.”

I breathe through the sharp pain, my eyes flicking to the monitors beside me. Numbers and graphs pulse on the screens, but they’re just cryptic symbols to me. I wish I knew what they meant.

“How long has it been?” I ask, my voice coming out a whisper.

“Two days.”

Two days. It feels like just seconds ago that I was holding that gun, my finger on the trigger.

“Is the pakhan dead?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re a Ferraro capo.”

“I am.” There’s no happiness in his tone. Not even relief at having gotten his promotion. Is it because he’s worried about me? Or is it something else?

I register the bandage on his arm. “You were hurt?”

“It’s nothing. Just a graze that’ll heal in no time.” He gives me a soft smile. “You saved both of our lives.”

“What about Ekaterina?”

Nero’s jaw hardens. “She’s gone.”

Gone. As in dead. As in…I killed her.

I killed someone.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut, followed by a wave of nausea so strong I groan.

“I’ll call the doctor,” Nero says.

Those moments in the bathroom replay in my mind like a nightmare. I bite on the inside of my mouth and taste copper. Oh God. What have I done?

I’m a killer. I took someone’s life.

It doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t feel like something I’m capable of, but the truth is there. Undeniable and cold.

I pulled the trigger.

There’s no coming back from this. I’ll never be the same. How can I be? I’ve done the unthinkable.

The door bursts open, revealing a man in scrubs. “Hello, Blake,” the doctor says. “How are you feeling?”

I press my hand to my lips. “Like I’m about to be sick.”

“That’s normal after anesthesia,” the doctor explains, moving to check the monitors. “You might feel nauseous, dizzy, and disoriented for a few days until your body adjusts.”

It’s not the anesthesia. It’s the fact that I’ve done something I never thought I was capable of, and amidst the shock, confusion, and fear, there’s one emotion that’s missing.

Guilt.

“Are you in pain?”

I blink and force myself to answer his question. “My abdomen is.”

“I’ll adjust your pain medication.” He reaches for the IV line and carefully turns a dial. “We had to remove a bullet. By the time you arrived, you’d lost more than a liter and a half of blood.”

“When can she go home?” Nero asks, his voice tense.

“I’d like to keep her here for another five days at least, as we need to monitor her for any potential infections. In addition, I want to make sure she doesn’t bleed more.”

Five days? After the motorcycle accident, they discharged me the next day. Probably because we didn’t have insurance, and my father wasn’t keen on paying for my care out of pocket.

Tears well up unexpectedly. If he knew what I’d done to survive… I have a sick feeling he’d be proud.

The last thing I ever wanted was to behave in ways that would make my piece-of-shit father proud.

The doctor leaves.

Nero takes my hand again and says something about me not needing to worry about anything. That I’m safe. That I’ll be out of here soon.

But his words don’t bring any comfort. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, my mouth sealed tight, until darkness drags me back under.

Nero doesn’t sleep. For the next few days, whenever I wake up, he’s there, keeping an eye on me from a chair placed beside my bed.

He makes sure I have everything I need, feeds me the food the nurses bring, and overreacts to every comment I make about something hurting.

When I need to use the bathroom, he’s there, walking me to the toilet with a carefully placed arm around my waist. I cling to him, weaker than ever. The room I’m in isn’t large, but it seems to magically expand in size when I’m trying to get to the other side.

The care with which he’s treating me stirs up unpleasant, shameful feelings. I don’t deserve his compassion. I don’t deserve anyone’s compassion. I was right to be scared of what being in this world could do to me, but I had no idea what kind of monster truly lurked within.

Cleo and Rafaele come by to see me. Rafaele wishes me a quick recovery in a few short words, his voice low and gruff. He stands at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, and watches the monitors as if he’s silently assessing my condition and verifying if the doctors are right.

Cleo is the opposite. She rushes over to my bedside, hugs me, and then proceeds to ask me a million questions about how I’m doing. Unlike her husband, she pays no attention to the monitors, but she comes up with a long list of things I “absolutely need” for my recovery—a weighted eye mask, lavender-scented pillow spray, and something called a “healing crystal” that she swears by. But despite her slightly ridiculous suggestions, I’m warmed by her genuine concern.

When the men leave the room to get some coffee, she pulls up a chair, sits down, and clasps my hand. “I’ve been there, you know? My own father held me at gunpoint. Only I didn’t manage to save myself like you did. I had to wait for Nero and Rafe to come to my rescue.” She exhales, her gaze distant. “It took me a long time to get over it.”

Of course. I’ve heard the story from Nero’s point of view, but I never thought about what it was like for Cleo.

“How did you feel in the aftermath?”

“Angry. And I felt guilty for everything—for being dumb enough to jump into my dad’s car, for not fighting his men harder, for being the reason Nero and Sandro got sent away.” She blinks at me, her eyes the color of bright emeralds. “And honestly, I can’t say that I’ve stopped feeling guilty, even after all this time.”

My face falls, and I look down at my lap.

I feel guilty for what happened to Sandro. I feel guilty for lying to Nero. But I don’t feel guilty for killing Ekaterina.

I wish I did.

Because my lack of guilt seems so much worse. It makes me feel sick, messed up, broken. What is wrong with me?

In the days following Cleo and Rafe’s visit, Nero doesn’t bring up the night I got shot at all, as if he knows talking about it might make me spiral. During the hours I’m awake, he reads to me. Sometimes we play cards, and he lets me win.

There’s a delivery one afternoon. An extravagant bouquet of peonies, roses, and lilies of the valley.

Nero brings it to me so that I can smell the flowers. “From Vita. There’s a card. She and Gino wanted to visit, but I told them no. I didn’t want them to disturb you.”

I fish out the small sealed envelope. “You didn’t read it?”

“It’s for you.”

I tear it open and pull out the card. On the front is a painting of flowers, just like the ones in the bouquet, with the words “Get Better Soon” written in cursive. Inside, there’s a simple message above a phone number. ‘Thank you. Remember to call me if you need anything.’

Tears prick the backs of my eyes.

Well, here it is. I finally got what I wanted. My favor. My all-important escape plan, should I ever need it.

I should be happy, right?

But I’m not.

Because now I feel even more trapped—trapped being a version of myself I don’t recognize.

“All of the damage in the living room has been repaired,” Nero says as he unlocks the front door of the penthouse when we finally leave the hospital a few days later.

I sigh from where I’m sitting in a wheelchair. Despite telling Nero it is completely unnecessary, he insisted on wheeling me in from the car to the elevator.

He’s treating me like I’m still fragile, but I’ve been doing a lot better in the last two days. I’m down to taking only a few Tylenol to manage the pain.

My body is healing, but my soul feels like it’s adrift.

He wheels me in, guiding me all the way through the penthouse, and stops in front of my bedroom door. “I got the bathroom completely redone. I don’t want anything in there to trigger bad memories of that night, but if it’s still too much, let me know.”

I blink in surprise. I thought he’d take me to his room. Before this, I was planning to move in there with him, but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. “Why don’t we go to your room?”

A flicker of emotion crosses his face—something I can’t quite read. “We can if you want.”

I frown. That’s not the enthusiastic response I’d anticipated. He hasn’t tried to kiss me since I woke up after the surgery. On the forehead and cheeks, yes, but never on the lips. There’ve been times I’ve caught him looking at my mouth, but he’s held back.

Why?

Our eyes connect. His are filled with unease, as if he’s wrestling with something deep inside.

“No, this is fine,” I say, trying to mask the disappointment creeping in.

He nods and leads me into the room, helping me climb up on the bed and then pulling the blanket over me. His movements are gentle, but there’s something distant in them, a hesitance that wasn’t there before.

I want to ask him what’s going on. I want to hear what he thinks about everything that happened. But I’m too afraid to hear his answer, so I keep my questions to myself.

My sleep that night is restless. Whenever I wake up, I find Nero on the other side of the bed, lying on his side. Sometimes his eyes are open, watching me. Other times, they’re closed, and his brow is furrowed in his sleep.

I dream of gunshots, men shouting, and cold metal beneath my hands.

When I wake up, the sun’s risen, and Nero’s gone.

The doctor arrives sometime later, checking on me under Nero’s supervision, and he tells me the wound’s healing exceptionally well. An older woman brings me my meals. Nero’s hired her to be our chef.

By midday, I’m tired of marinating inside my sheets. I throw the covers off, get to my feet, and walk out of the room.

Nero comes around the corner, his eyes widening when he realizes I’m on my feet.

“Blake, slow down.”

“You heard the doctor. I’m fine. It barely even hurts anymore.” I hike the edge of my pajama top up to show him the wound. It doesn’t look pretty, but the skin has begun to heal. “I can’t keep lying here all day anymore.”

I walk past him into the living room. It looks completely different with the new furniture—two new leather couches, a darker rug, and a glass coffee table. Everything is neat and pristine, as if trying to erase any trace of what happened here.

I pour myself a glass of water in the kitchen, where the countertop and cabinetry have all been replaced. Nero follows me, his gaze flickering with unease. There’s obviously something weighing on him.

How much longer am I going to skirt the topic? I blow out a breath. “Nero, what’s going on? I can tell something’s bothering you.”

He presses his palms against the counter, his gaze locked on mine from across the island. The tension in his shoulders tightens, like he’s bracing himself for something. “I wanted to wait until you’re better.”

“Wait for what? I’m better. Just tell me.”

He hesitates, his jaw working for a moment. Finally, he exhales. “All right. I’ll be right back.” He leaves the room and comes back a minute later with a brown envelope in his hand.

He hands it to me. “This is for you.”

I open it and dump the contents onto the island.

A passport clatters out from among the documents.

My surroundings dim as I focus on the small booklet. “What is this?”

“A new identity,” he says softly. “So you can start over fresh. If you want.”

I pick up the passport, my heart lodging in my throat. How did he know this was what I was after? Did he talk to Vita? I never told her exactly what favor I’d ask for, but maybe he guessed.

“You want me to leave?”

“Of course I don’t,” he says, his words raw and laced with pain. “But I’m giving you a choice. I never should have taken that from you in the first place, but I had to in order to keep you safe then. Now that we’ve resolved the situation with the Ferraros, I won’t hold you here against your will.”

“What about the Iron Raptors? Won’t they come for me if I leave?”

“I talked to Rafe. He got in contact with their president, and they’ve negotiated a deal. They’re no longer a threat.”

I blink through the sudden tears in my eyes. “Why the change of heart? You were so adamant before that I belonged here with you.”

“When I found you bleeding out, I knew I couldn’t force you to be here anymore. My mother was shot because of my stepdad, but I never blamed him for her death. My mom knew the life she committed to living and the consequences that came with it. She accepted them because she loved him. And you…” He trails off.

My hands begin to shake. I love you too. As much as someone can love a person when they despise themselves.

“You never made that commitment,” he whispers. “Not willingly. I forced you into it, and I kept telling myself it would all work out fine because I wanted you here with me. But seeing you fighting for your life made me realize I love you more than my own selfish desire to keep you with me. If what you want is a life far away from the darkness that comes with me, I won’t stand in your way.”

Inside me, something shatters. He’s letting me leave. I went to all these lengths to get my own way out, thinking he’d never have the capacity to do this.

And he’s proven me wrong.

Nero takes a step forward. “That’s what you’ve always wanted, right? A choice?”

It was. It should be. But the celebratory fireworks I expected to feel right about now are nowhere to be found. Instead, my chest vibrates with a dull ache.

“If you decide to go, I’ll help you get anywhere you want to go. And you’ll have enough money that you’ll never have to work again.” His voice breaks, and he turns away from me, his shoulders slumping.

I stare at his back. My hands itch to glide under his shirt, to pull him close and press my cheek against his warmth.

But I can’t do that.

I love him, but it’s not him I’m running from. I’m running from the person I’ve become living in his world.

So I say the words, knowing I can never take them back. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”