The Woman in the Wrong Place (Grassi Framily)

I was going to have to contact Marcie eventually. And tell her about getting “mugged” again. She was probably going to go out and buy herself a gun with the “rise in crime” in Navesink Bank.

“I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“I was just, you know, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t usually close work alone. The manager had to leave early. It was just back luck.”

“Seems you’re having quite a bit of that lately.”

“Yeah, but there has been some good luck too,” I said, shrugging. “And I get some time off work now,” I said, trying to smile but the split in my lip wouldn’t let me.

“I’m worried I gave you bad advice,” Detective Hart admitted.

“You didn’t. You gave me the only solution you could come up with in a bad situation. This,” I said, waving at myself, “has nothing to do with that. And you heard Matteo. He is going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“I’m worried this will mean you will have even more mafia men in your life,” he said, shaking his head.

It seemed like that was highly likely actually.

And for some reason, I couldn’t find the energy to be worried about that fact.

Or maybe it was simply that, in this particular situation, Matteo and his mafia family were the good guys.

I didn’t know how I was supposed to feel about the whole thing, so I just decided to go along with what felt right to me in the moment.

“Maybe,” I agreed, nodding. “But I think we can both agree that my workplace will be one of the safest places in Navesink Bank starting tomorrow morning.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” Detective Hart agreed. “But if at any point you feel like things have gotten out of hand, that you’re in over your head, and you need someone to pull you out, call me, okay? I can help.”

“Thank you. Really. I will definitely keep that in mind,” I told him.

“When you’re up to it, check in with me so I know you’re okay, alright?” he asked. And it wasn’t just a throwaway comment; he genuinely wanted me to reach out to him.

“I will. I promise.”

“Feel better, Josie,” he said, patting my toes under the sheet then making his way to the door.

Matteo came back in a moment later with the ice pack for my face. And this man, this unexpected, disarming man stood there at my bedside and held the ice pack to my face, flipping it when the side got too warm, stroking his fingers through my hair when the doctors came back to tell me that my brain was okay and that they would draw up my discharge papers.

Not twenty minutes later, I was handed a pair of scrubs to change into since my clothes were all cut up.

Matteo must have sensed my anxiety because he reached for the pants, shaking them out.

“Let me help,” he said, going down on his knees in front of me.

To slip my legs into the pants.

I knew this.

But that didn’t mean my mind didn’t momentarily flash back to the last time he was on his knees in front of me.

When he reached for my ankle, his gaze slid up, eyes dancing a bit.

“Just getting you dressed right now, baby,” he said, voice smooth, sliding over my skin and making a shiver move through my insides. “But if you need some… pain relief when we get you in bed, then I am at your service,” he added, giving me a playful smirk before his head ducked again, getting my pants on, then yanking them up under the gown I was wearing. “Okay, turn,” he said when he stood again.

He was going to help me put the top on.

But he was telling me to turn to help me save my modesty.

Yeah, maybe Matteo was part of the Grassi mafia Family, but it was getting harder and harder to think of him as the bad guy.

He waited until I turned, then reached for the ties behind my back, working them free slowly, then reaching up to slide the material off my shoulders.

His fingertips teased over my bare skin and there was no fighting the tremble that coursed through me at the barely-there contact.

The gown fell forward down my arms, leaving me naked from the waist up. But I couldn’t really blame the chill in the air for the way the goosebumps rose up over my skin, or for why my nipples tightened into points.

Matteo’s finger slid down my shoulder, then traced my spine for a moment before moving toward the side, his fingertips caressing over my ribs.

“Fuck, baby,” he said, voice soft as he traced the nasty bruises that had started to form on my side.

“I’ll be okay,” I assured him.

“I’ll make sure of it,” he agreed, reaching for the shirt, bunching it up on his hands, then slipping it onto each of my arms first. “It will be easier just to duck your head to get it on than raise your arms right now. I will make sure I get you some zip-front clothes. Make the process easier until the ache eases,” he said.