IAN'S POV

I walk behind him, my hand enveloped in his. His grip is firm, almost unyielding, yet it offers a strange comfort that I can't quite shake off. His calloused fingers, a stark contrast to the softness of my own, send an unfamiliar warmth through me. I shouldn’t feel safe no, I can't feel safe but the truth is undeniable walking hand-in-hand with a mafia boss, surrounded by his legion of bodyguards, brings an odd sense of security.

As we approach our table, I can't help but notice how his eyes dart around the room, scanning every face, every table. Is he just being cautious, or is there something else? Perhaps he's ashamed ashamed of being seen with me. I mean, who wouldn’t be? Here he is, a figure who exudes power and danger, and then there's me average, nothing like him. I shake off the thought, trying to focus on the present.

When we finally sit, the opulence of the restaurant takes my breath away. The contrasting light and dark brown furniture exudes luxury, while the chandeliers, dripping in crystals, scream wealth and extravagance. A wine fountain near the bar glistens under the soft lighting, and a massive fish tank, embedded in one of the walls, adds a touch of elegance. This place is a shrine to excess, and it’s all too much for me to take in at once.

“What’ll you have, babe?” His voice is soft, unexpectedly gentle, and it jolts me out of my daze. My heart skips a beat, hammering away in my chest as I freeze, my mind struggling to process that single word 'babe'. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, my entire body betraying me as I sit there, completely immobilized.

“Anything is fine by me,” I manage to stammer out, trying to regain some composure. “Just not anything gross like bacon with strawberries on it.” He smirks, a knowing gleam in his eye, and orders for both of us without hesitation.

As the waiter departs, I turn to him, irritation lacing my voice. “Would you stop calling me those cheesy nicknames? We aren’t lovers, you know.”

He leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. “Ah, so you admit I can flirt, huh? And I don’t care if we’re lovers or not. We’re married, and I can call my wife whatever I want.”

“Don’t call me your—” I start, but the words die in my throat as a woman, the hostess from earlier, approaches our table. She leans in close, offering Masimo a full view of her cleavage, but he doesn’t even spare her a glance.

“Is everything alright? Do you need anything else, Masimo?” she asks, her voice dripping with suggestion.

I can’t help myself. “Hey, don’t be a waitress. It doesn’t suit you,” I snap, the words leaving my mouth before I can think better of it. Masimo looks at me in shock, his hand coming up to cover his mouth, while the woman straightens up, her face flushing with anger. She storms off, heels clacking loudly against the polished floor.

"Well, look who’s jealous,” he teases, a mischievous glint in his eye.

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“Are you talking about ghosts? Because I wasn’t jealous at all. Why would I be?” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant, but I can’t stop the blush that creeps up my neck.

“Okay, whatever you say, babe,” he says, laughing quietly to himself. Damn it, I can feel my face turning even redder. He’s enjoying this, and I’m just digging myself deeper.

The food arrives, and it’s everything I imagined it would be and more. The restaurant is traditional Japanese, the kind of place where every detail matters. The pork is the juiciest I’ve ever had, and the tea is soothing, calming my nerves in a way I desperately need. We eat in relative silence, the earlier banter fading as we both savor the meal.

When the bill arrives, Masimo pays without a second thought, leaving a hefty tip before standing. We don’t linger there’s something unspoken urging us to leave, as if the night holds more in store.

As we drive home, the tension that had been simmering all evening suddenly boils over. Halfway to the house, two vans appear out of nowhere, forcing us off the road. Masimo’s reaction is immediate, instinctual he grabs the gun from his back, another from the glove compartment, and starts firing through the open window. He slams the door behind him, leaving me in the car with strict instructions not to move.

Gunfire echoes around me, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it all out. Violence isn’t something I’m accustomed to surgery, yes, but not this. I focus on my breathing, trying to stave off the panic rising in my chest. But then, just as suddenly as it started, the shooting stops. The silence is deafening.

I can’t stay in the car. I get out, heart pounding, and see him lying on the ground, lifeless. My vision blurs as I sprint towards him, dropping to my knees and pulling his head into my lap. “Hey, hey, wake up. Please wake up,” I plead, my voice cracking as I shake him, slap his face lightly, anything to get a response.

A low groan escapes his lips, and I almost collapse in relief. “Hi, kitten... shhh, don’t worry. It’s alright,” he mutters, his voice weak. “Just call Mika, get him here.”

I do as he says, fumbling with my phone, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I keep his cheeks cupped in my hands, willing him to stay with me. But when I check his pulse, it’s too slow, too faint. The panic sets in fully now, the surgeon in me screaming to take control, but the fear fear for him clouds my mind.

“Where’s the bullet?” I ask, my voice trembling. He points weakly to his upper arm. I quickly tear off his coat, ripping the sleeve of his shirt to get a better look. The bullet’s lodged in his arm, and there’s no way I can operate here. I tie the shirt around his arm to stem the bleeding, then lift him, struggling under his weight as I drag him back to the car. I lay him down in the back seat as gently as I can, before jumping into the driver’s seat.

I’ve never driven so fast in my life. My hands are slick with sweat, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios as I speed towards the hospital. When we finally arrive, I practically leap out of the car, barking orders at the staff, demanding to be the one to perform the surgery. They don’t argue they know who I am, and they know I’m the best.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself as I enter the operating room. The sight of him on the table, so vulnerable, sends a fresh wave of fear through me, but I push it down. I can’t afford to lose focus now. I scrub in, pull on my gloves, and set to work, every movement precise, every cut, every stitch a testament to the years of training that have led me here.

Two hours later, I step back, exhaustion washing over me as relief floods my system. He’s out of danger. Masimo is wheeled into the VIP room, and I collapse into a chair, my legs barely able to hold me up. I text Mika, letting him know Masimo’s stable, and that he’ll wake up soon.

That night was like sweet heaven and a fucked up hell all rolled into one.