Chapter 9: His Distraction

Gio's POV.

The heavy oak doors of my office slammed shut with a force that should have cracked the wood, but it wasn't enough to drown out the echo of his voice.

'You might get addicted to my company.'

I dropped into my leather chair, the springs groaning under my weight. My arm throbbed—the wound from the hospital—but the physical ache was a dull hum compared to the static screaming in my brain.

I pulled a stack of logistics reports toward me. We had a weapon shipment to intercept in twenty-four hours. I needed to focus. I needed to be the King of Kards.

I picked up my fountain pen and began to outline the northern district's patrol routes.

Entry point: Sector 4.

Estimated arrival: 23:00.

I stopped. My hand hovered over the paper. Instead of calculating the radius of the blast zone, I was thinking about the way Samson’s hair looked messy after he fell. I was thinking about the heat of his body when I pinned him down—how he didn't smell like the other men in this house. He didn't smell like sweat and cheap tobacco. He smelled like… something soft. Like clean linen and that ridiculous blue candy.

I snarled, crumpling the paper into a jagged ball and hurling it at the wastebasket. I missed.

"Focus, Vitale," I hissed at myself.

I grabbed a fresh sheet. I tried to write the names of the captains I needed to alert. Spade. Club. Heart. My pen moved across the page in a fluid motion, but when I looked down, my blood turned to ice.

In the center of the mission briefing, written in my own elegant, cursive script, was: Allizander Jenesis Samson.

I stared at the name. It looked like a confession. I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated panic. I wasn't just distracted; I was compromised. I was a man who hated women, a man who built walls high enough to block out the sun, and yet here I was, scrawling the name of a bratty male nurse like a lovestruck teenager in a boarding school.

"Disgusting," I muttered, my voice thick with self-loathing. I ripped the paper into shreds, my breathing turning shallow.

I tried again. And again. I went through half a ream of paper. Every time I tried to plan the mission, the pen would betray me. I’d find myself drawing the curve of a jawline in the margin or writing Samson in the corner of a map. The frustration built up until it felt like a physical weight behind my eyes.

Finally, I snapped. I stood up and swept my arm across the desk. The lamp, the inkwell, the stacks of files—everything went flying.

The ink splattered against the marble floor like a Rorschach test of my own failing sanity. I grabbed a crystal decanter from the side table and launched it into the fireplace, watching it explode into a thousand shimmering diamonds.

The door creaked open. Jett stood there, his eyes widening as he took in the wreckage. "Uh… Boss? Did the desk owe you money, or are we just practicing for a riot?"

"Shut up, Jett," I snapped, my chest heaving. My heart was vibrating against my ribs. I felt like I was losing a war inside my own head. "Fight me. Right now."

Jett’s smirk faltered. "In here? You’re still healing, Gio. If the nurse sees you reopened those stitches, he’ll have both our heads."

"I said fight me!" I lunged at him before he could finish.

We moved to the center of the room, clearing a space among the broken glass. Usually, sparring with Jett was a master class in precision. I was always three steps ahead. But tonight, the world was a blur of shadows and golden light.

Jett threw a standard right cross. My brain saw it coming, but my body didn't care. I was thinking about the way Samson’s head had rested in the crook of my shoulder—the trust in that movement.

Thud.

Jett’s fist connected with my jaw. My head snapped back, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.

"What the hell, Gio?" Jett yelled, dropping his hands. "You didn't even parry! You’re wide open!"

"Again!" I roared, wiping the blood from my lip.

We went for another ten minutes. It was a massacre. I was the best fighter in the province, a man trained by shadows, and I couldn't land a single solid blow.

I kept seeing Samson’s face. I kept hearing his laugh. Every time I closed the distance with Jett, my mind replaced him with the nurse, and my hands turned to lead.

Jett caught my arm, twisted, and sent me crashing into the hardwood floor. He stood over me, his expression shifting from confusion to genuine worry. He had never defeated me. Never.

"You’re not here, Boss," Jett said, his voice unusually quiet. "Your head is in the clouds. Or maybe it’s in the room next door. You want to tell me what’s really going on?"

"Get out," I whispered, staring at the ceiling as the world spun.

"Gio, listen—"

"I said GET OUT!"

The door clicked shut. I stayed on the floor, the cold wood pressing against my back. I hated him. I hated the way he made me feel weak. I hated that I was a Vitale, and I was falling apart because of a man with a pretty face and a sharp tongue.

I stood up, my movements sluggish. I didn't mean to go there. I told myself I was just going to check the locks. But my feet moved on their own, guided by a magnetic pull I couldn't fight.

I found myself in my bedroom, staring at the connecting door.

I pushed it open and it didn't make a sound.

The nurse’s room was dark, the air smelling faintly of lavender and the underlying scent of the house. I moved toward the bed, my footsteps silent. Samson was asleep, buried under the duvet, looking so peaceful that it made my stomach ache.

I stood over him, my shadow looming large. I should have been disgusted. He was a man. My nurse. A liability. But as I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the chaos in my mind suddenly went silent.

The anger, the confusion, the screaming static—it all vanished. Just being in his presence was like a sedative.

I leaned down, moving closer until I could feel the warmth radiating from him. I wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, to see if he was real or just a ghost I had conjured to torture myself. I was inches away, my breath hitching, my heart finally finding a steady beat.

Then, the blankets shifted. Those bright, defiant eyes snapped open, locking onto mine in the darkness.

"Boss?"