8. Aaron

CHAPTER 8

AARON

T he world is a blur of chaos and noise as I pace the waiting room of Chicago General, my heart lodged in my throat, my hands shaking with a mix of fear and impotent rage. Santino, my fierce, beautiful warrior, lies broken and bleeding on an operating table, and there's not a goddamn thing I can do but wait and pray to a God I'm not sure I believe in anymore.

I've never felt so helpless, so utterly lost. The memory of his body, torn and shattered by the Romanos' bullets, is seared into my mind, a waking nightmare I can't escape. The thought of losing him, of facing a world without his strength and passion, his fierce, devoted love...it's unbearable.

I'm jolted out of my spiraling thoughts by a hand on my shoulder, turning me roughly to face a haggard, haunted-looking Gia. "We need to move him," she says without preamble, her voice tight with strain. "The doctors have done all they can here, but he's not safe. Not with the Romanos still out for blood."

I stare at her, uncomprehending. "What? Gia, no, he just got out of surgery. He needs to be monitored, needs proper medical care-"

"And he'll get it," she cuts me off. "At the safehouse. Aaron, please. I know it's not ideal, but we have no choice. Santino...my brother has spent his whole life protecting this family. Now it's our turn to protect him."

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat like swallowed glass. The thought of moving Santino, of taking him away from the doctors and nurses who might be his only chance...it terrifies me. But Gia's right. Santino's enemies won't stop, won't rest until they've finished the job. Until they've destroyed the man who dared to defy them, to turn his back on their bloody, merciless world.

"Okay," I rasp, the word tasting like ashes on my tongue. "Okay, Gia. Let's do it. Let's get him somewhere safe."

The safehouse Gia takes us to is less a house and more a fortress, all reinforced steel and bulletproof glass, a state-of-the-art security system humming in the walls. And in the master bedroom, hooked up to softly beeping machines and IVs, lies the still, pale form of the man I love.

"Oh, Santino," I choke out, sinking to my knees beside the bed, my shaking hand finding his, mindful of the wires and tubes. He looks so fragile, so broken, a far cry from the vital, powerful man who stole my heart and remade my world. "I'm here, baby. I'm right here with you, and I'm not going anywhere. So you just...you keep fighting, okay? You come back to me."

The next few days and nights bleed together in a haze of exhaustion and fear, of clinging to Santino's hand and watching the rise and fall of his bandaged chest. I talk to him constantly, my voice hoarse from overuse, telling him all the things I never got to say, all the hopes and dreams I have for our future.

"We're going to get out of this city," I promise him, my lips brushing his knuckles. "Go somewhere quiet, somewhere green. Somewhere Matteo can have a real childhood, with a yard to play in and a dog to chase. And you and I...we'll make love in the grass under the stars, slow and sweet. We'll dance in the kitchen to cheesy love songs. We'll fight and make up and grow old disgracefully together. But you gotta wake up first, my love. You gotta come back to me so we can have all of that."

And then, on the fourth night, a miracle. The slightest twitch of fingers against my palm, the flutter of dark lashes against too-pale skin. "Aaron," Santino croaks, his voice rusty from disuse. "You...stayed."

"Of course I stayed," I manage through my tears, lifting his hand to my lips. "Where else would I be? I love you, Santino Ricci. For better or worse, remember?"

His lips curve in the shadow of a smile, a glint of the old mischief in his pain-glazed eyes. "Pretty sure...this qualifies...as worse."

I laugh, giddy and disbelieving and so goddamn grateful I can barely breathe. "Nah," I whisper, cautiously smoothing his dark hair back from his clammy forehead. "Any day I get to see these beautiful eyes is a good day in my book."

He hums, low and contented, turning his face into my touch. But then a shadow passes over his expression, memories flickering behind his eyes. "Matteo," he rasps urgently. "Gia...are they...?"

"Safe," I assure him, my thumb caressing the sharp angle of his cheekbone. "They're safe, my love. Gia got Matteo out before the attack. They're both okay."

Relief slackens his features, his eyes already fluttering closed again as the momentary surge of adrenaline fades. "Love you," he mumbles, his words starting to slur. "My Aaron. Love you...so much."

And then he's asleep again, his breathing deep and even. But this time, it feels less like a farewell and more like a promise. A vow that he'll keep fighting, keep clawing his way back to my side.

In the coming days and weeks, as Santino slowly heals, I cling to that promise, to the knowledge of his love. It sustains me through the long nights of changing bandages and coaxing broth past his lips, the longer days of physical therapy and frustrated tears. Little by little, I watch him come back to himself, the shadows receding from his eyes, the strength returning to his reclaimed body.

And with that strength comes the heat, the hunger that's always crackled between us, a live wire just waiting for a spark. I feel it in the way his gaze lingers on me as I move around the room, in the deliberate brush of his fingers against my skin as I help him stand, walk, reclaim his independence piece by hard-fought piece.

It all comes to a head one stormy night, the rain lashing the windows, the thunder a low, ominous rumble. Santino is on his feet, restless and prowling, his wounds healed enough now for him to move with some of his old deadly grace.

He pins me with a look across the room, his eyes black and fathomless in the low light. "Aaron," he says, and God, the way he wraps his tongue around my name, like a prayer and a curse all at once. "Come here."

Here's the expanded section with more detail, dialogue, physical sensation, mafia and gay romance tropes, and high heat:

I go to him helplessly, drawn like a moth to the flame of his dark, dangerous charisma. He pulls me in with strong, sure arms, the corded muscles flexing beneath his inked skin. And then his mouth is on mine, hot and demanding, his tongue delving past my lips to stake a claim, to brand me as his own.

I groan into the kiss, my hands fisting in his thick, dark hair, in the soft cotton of his shirt. It's been so long, so many weeks of fear and strain and longing, of not knowing if I'd ever feel the heat of his touch again. Having him like this now, vital and virile against me, his body honed by violence but gentled by love...it's almost too much to bear.

"Santino," I gasp as he walks me back towards the bed, his lips trailing fire down the column of my throat. "Please, I need..."

"Shh, I know, baby," he soothes, his voice a rough velvet rasp against my skin. "I've got you. Gonna take such good care of you, gonna worship this gorgeous body like it deserves."

He strips me with deft, efficient moves, his eyes molten black as they rake over every inch of revealed skin. I've never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, and yet so utterly safe, cherished. Like I'm the most precious thing in his world, a treasure he'll guard with his life.

Santino gentles the kiss, his lips moving languorously over mine as his nimble fingers find the buttons of my shirt, parting the fabric and shoving it off my shoulders. "Been craving the taste of you," he breathes against my mouth, punctuating each word with a nip of sharp teeth. "Dreaming of having you spread out beneath me, begging for my cock. Gonna make that dream a reality now, gonna claim every inch of this sweet body and remind you who you belong to."

"Yes," I hiss, arching into the heat of his touch as his calloused hands map the planes of my chest, the ridges of my abs. "Yes, Santino, please. Want to be yours, want you to make me feel it, make me never forget."

His answering growl vibrates through me, dark and possessive. He seals his mouth over one nipple, his teeth and tongue and the scrape of his stubble wringing a broken cry from my lips. I tangle my fingers in his hair, holding him to me, silently begging for more, more, more.

He obliges, shifting his attention to my other nipple and giving it the same treatment, sending sparks of pleasure zinging down my spine. My hips rut helplessly against his, my aching cock seeking the solid heat of him, the delicious friction I've been craving for endless, agonizing weeks.

"Look at you," Santino rasps, pulling back to admire his handiwork, the red, kiss-swollen flesh of my chest, the high flush staining my cheeks. "So fucking gorgeous, baby. And all mine, aren't you? My beautiful Aaron, my perfect boy."

"Yours," I agree breathlessly, reaching for him with shaking hands. "Only yours, Santino. Always."

He rewards me with another searing kiss, his tongue fucking into my mouth in blatant mimicry of what's to come. Then he's moving down my body with single-minded purpose, his lips and teeth and fingers igniting fires and soothing them in turns, driving me to the brink of madness with the intensity of his focus, his desire.

When he finally reaches my straining cock, I'm already a writhing, desperate mess, my skin feverish and damp with sweat, my breath coming in shallow pants. He takes me into the wet silk of his mouth without preamble, swallowing me down to the base in one smooth glide.

"Fuck!" I shout, my hips bucking helplessly into the tight, slick heat of him. "Oh god, Santino, your mouth, it's so...fuck, baby, please..."

He hums around me, the vibrations making my eyes roll back in my head, my toes curl against the sheets. His tongue swirls wickedly around the leaking tip, lapping up the bitter evidence of my arousal before pressing hard against the sensitive bundle of nerves just beneath. At the same time, one broad, blunt finger circles my entrance, teasing the furled muscle and making me clench with anticipation.

"Need you in me," I babble, too far gone for shame or hesitation. "Please, Santino, I'm ready, just...just fuck me, fill me up, make me take it, make it so good..."

He pulls off my cock with an obscenely wet pop, his eyes midnight dark and burning as they meet mine. "Oh, I'll fill you up, baby," he promises, his voice low and rough with barely leashed hunger. "Gonna stuff that tight little hole so full of my cock you'll be feeling it for days. Gonna fuck you so deep and so hard you'll never forget who you belong to, never want anyone else inside this perfect ass."

I keen high in my throat at the filthy, electrifying words. "Yes," I chant mindlessly, spreading my thighs wider, offering myself up to him completely. "Yours, Santino, all yours. Ruin me, wreck me for anyone else, fuck, please..."

He preps me quickly but thoroughly, those thick, dexterous fingers breaching me and crooking just right, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. By the time he deems me ready, I'm a quivering, incoherent wreck, my cock drooling steadily against my belly, my rim puffy and slick and fluttering hungrily around the elegant digits buried inside me.

"Gonna fuck you now," Santino grunts as he slicks himself up, the heavy, flushed head of his cock bumping insistently against my entrance. "Gonna split you open on my dick, tesoro, make a home in this hot little hole. You ready for me, baby? Ready to be mine completely?"

"Been ready," I pant, locking my legs around his waist to urge him closer. "Needed this, needed you for so long, Santino. Take me, make me yours, fucking give it to me alre - oh!"

My words dissolve into a broken wail as he thrusts forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one smooth, inexorable glide. The burn and stretch of it, the sheer overwhelming fullness...it's exquisite, an agony and an ecstasy unlike anything I've ever known.

"Fuck, Aaron," Santino grits out above me, his face a mask of straining pleasure, his arms trembling on either side of my head as he fights for control. "So goddamn tight, baby, so fucking perfect around my cock. Never felt anything like it, like you. Never gonna let you go, never gonna stop fucking this sweet ass..."

"Don't want you to," I manage, canting my hips to feel him impossibly deeper. "Want you like this always, Santino. Owning me, claiming me, making me yours in every way. Fuck, you feel so good, so big. Stretching me out, hitting me so deep..."

He snarls at that, a rough, feral sound of pure possession. And then he's moving, pulling out slow and slamming back in hard, setting a deep, driving rhythm that punches the breath from my lungs, that lights me up from the inside out with every devastating thrust.

I can only hold on, my nails raking down the flexing muscles of his back, my lips parted around broken cries and garbled pleas for more, harder, faster. He gives me everything I ask for and more, pounding into me with a force that rocks the bed frame, that sends pleasure spiking white-hot up my spine.

"Touch yourself," he commands breathlessly as his hips piston, as the heavy slap of flesh on flesh fills the room. "Want you to come on my cock, baby. Want to feel this tight little ass milking me dry when you shoot all over yourself like a good boy."

Moaning helplessly at the gruff, filthy words, I obey, wrapping a shaking hand around my own neglected erection. It only takes a few strokes before I'm coming so hard I nearly black out, my vision whiting out around the edges as hot ropes of release stripe my chest and belly.

Santino curses savagely above me, his rhythm faltering as my body clamps down around him like a vise. Hunching over me, he buries his face in the sweat-damp curve of my neck, muffling his own raw shout of completion as he pulses hot and deep inside me, filling me up with endless, scalding spurts of his seed.

In the aftermath, curled together on the rumpled sheets, I trace idle patterns on Santino's chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart beneath my cheek. "Gia says the FBI has enough evidence to take down the Romanos for good," I murmur. "That in a few weeks, they'll have dismantled the entire organization."

Santino hums, his fingers carding slow and soothing through my hair. "And then we'll be free," he says softly. "Free to go anywhere, be anything. Free to live in the light for the first time in my life."

I prop myself up on an elbow, meeting his gaze in the flickering light of the bedside lamp. "But first, you have to deal with your own role in all this," I remind him gently. "Have to serve your time, pay your debt to society."

His jaw clenches, something dark and haunted flashing in his eyes. "I know," he says roughly. "I knew when I started this that I'd have to face the consequences eventually. I just...I hate the thought of being away from you, from Matteo. Of leaving you unprotected."

I frame his face in my hands, brushing a tender kiss to his furrowed brow. "We'll be okay, Santino. I'll make sure Matteo is safe and loved, and I'll be right here waiting for you when you get out. Because you will get out, and we will have that future we've dreamed of. I have faith in that. In us."

He searches my eyes for a long, intent moment, and then he nods, covering my hands with his own. "Okay," he whispers. "Okay, Aaron. We'll get through this like we've gotten through everything else. Together."

"Together," I echo, sealing it with a kiss. "No matter what, Santino. You and me."

And I hold him close, breathing him in, memorizing the feel of his skin against mine. Because in a few short weeks, I'll have to watch him walk away, watch him surrender himself to a system that's far from perfect.

But this isn't the end for us. It's just a detour, a bumpy stretch of road on the path to our happily ever after.

We've fought too hard, come too far, to let anything tear us apart now. And when Santino comes home to me, to the family we've built...

It will be the most glorious beginning of all.