Dante had seen blood on the floor plenty of times before.
In his house, in his office, in unknown locations.
He had shed his blood and had shed blood in return.
And never once had it bothered him before, but apparently, that all changed today.
He felt his shoulders tighten at the way that was more than just physically uncomfortable as it kept spreading, following behind the woman beside him like a lost puppy.
It shouldn't be on his floors. It should be inside of her. Where it belonged.
The doctor, Alessandro Conti, hadn't even stepped fully into the room yet, still snapping on gloves, when Dante was already done with the situation. Sandro had his own room in the mansion... what the hell took him so long to get there?
There was no way it should have taken this long to climb a few sets of stairs... she could have bled out at any moment.
In no world, no situation, was that an acceptable outcome.
Dante narrowed his eyes at the man he normally trusted with his very life. This was his personal doctor, a man he considered a close friend. And yet, as Alessandro walked over to Mila and started poking at her shoulder, all he could think of was replacing her blood on the floor with his.
"She's been bleeding," Sandro announced like Dante couldn't fucking see it himself.
"No shit," he snapped, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he gritted his teeth, trying to keep his mouth shut. He needed to be calm, to be cold. To make the hard decisions.
But why, looking at her big blue eyes hiding behind monstrous glasses, could he not keep his cold temperament?
The woman who stood in front of a bullet to save him sat on the edge of the bed, her own jaw tight, and the glasses on her face still crooked. She hadn't said a word since she sat down. Not when the staff left the room, not when the door locked behind her, not even when Sandro arrived and started poking at her.
Dante's eyes dropped to her arm.
"How long has she been bleeding?" The question seemed simple, but now Dante could hear his friend's concern, even as he continued to poke at the wound again.
Dante's hands clenched as he forced himself not to punch the other man. In the very least, he wanted to put a bullet in the doctor's shoulder and start poking just so he could understand the pain the woman was in.
"Around an hour," Dante replied, forcing his emotions down. He didn't do emotions, and he couldn't afford to slip up now.
Sandro paused his evaluation and looked at him. Then back at her. "You didn't bandage her up?"
"We didn't have anything in the car."
The woman snorted quietly. "To be fair, he was busy making sure that we didn't get shot a second time."
Dante ignored that comment. He should have had bandages in the car. He should have looked after her better.
Nodding his head, Alessandro stopping his prodding movement and bent forward to inspect the wound more carefully. "Bullet's still in there."
That got her attention.
"Excuse me?" the woman said sharply.
"It went clean through muscle," he assured her, his voice calm and professional. "It didn't hit bone. But it didn't exit either. We need to get it out before it causes you more damage."
She looked down at her shoulder like she expected to see it staring back at her. "So… I need to go to the hospital for surgery?"
"No," Sandro replied, shaking his head and turning around to grab his medical bag. "A simple local anesthetic to kill the pain is all I need before I take it out."
"Here?" she asked, glancing around the room. "On the bed? In this room?"
She looked at the white sheets like they were the problem.
"They'll get ruined," she added. "You should move me. Or at least put something down."
Dante felt something in his chest tighten with irritation.
"They're sheets," he said flatly.
The woman looked up at him like he was the crazy one. "They're expensive sheets."
He returned her stare, refusing to back down. "I don't give a fuck about the sheets."
The words came out colder than he intended. Sharper. But she had to understand that the sheets didn't mean shit to him.
Sandro cleared his throat and pretended to check his instruments.
"I can buy you new sheets every day for the rest of your life if necessary," Dante continued. "Remove the bullet."
Blinking at the expression on his face, the woman shook her head. "That seems excessive when I can just go to the hospital to get the bullet out."
"So was jumping in front of a gun. And you aren't going to the hospital. Alessandro is a better doctor than anyone you would see there."
"And I have a lot more experience taking bullets out of people," shrugged the doctor in return. "I can even stitch it up so that you don't carry a scar."
That shut her up for a moment before she was nodding her head. "Then let's get this done." She shifted slightly so that she could lie on her stomach easier, her head cradled in her arms.
Dante watched it happen each one of her movements, the twinge of pain, the slight hesitation before giving in. He stood close enough to see the tension in her neck, the way her fingers curled into the bedding. Blood had soaked deeper into her shirt, covering the entire back in its sickening scent.
And yet, she still hadn't complained.
Still hadn't asked for painkillers.
Taking one more look at Dante, Alessandro pulled a pair of scissors out of his medical bag and cut the back of her shirt, revealing the strap of her white cotton bra and the bullet hole. Without a word, he measured and injected the anesthetic, his touch much more gentle than anything Dante had seen before.
And he hated that he even noticed.
He hated even more that he seemed... jealous... of Sandro touching the woman. It made no sense.
"You're going to feel pressure," Alessandro murmured softly, like he was talking to a small kitten. "I'll be as gentle as I can."
"Sure," she muttered, her eyes finally closing. "Let's get it done."
Dante's gaze stayed on her face.
He'd been shot before...stabbed too. He knew the look people got when the adrenaline wore off and the shaking started. Then came the fear... and the pain.
But she had none of it.
In fact, the only look he could easily identify on her face was that of annoyance.
Like all this was a huge inconvenience and he was making a bigger deal out of it than necessary.
Alessandro worked carefully, each one of his movements soft and flowing. He had never showed this... assurance to the other men who had gotten shot. With them, he didn't even bother numbing the pain before he took out the bullet.
Why was this woman different?
A moment later, Sandro straightened from where he was leaning over the woman. "Got it," he announced, holding the flat bullet in his tweezers. "And it was all in one piece, which is good."
The woman exhaled slowly. "Good. Take it out of whatever I owe you."
Dante almost smiled.
Almost.
Alessandro looked at Dante for a moment before quickly bandaging the wound and packing up his medical kit. "If you need anything," he said, leaning back down so that the woman knew he was talking to her. "I'm a few seconds away. I left my number on the bedside table."
Silence settled over the room at his words, but before Dante could say anything, Sandro turned around and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
The woman shifted, then stopped when her shoulder protested. "You didn't have to stay."
"Yes," Dante replied, his voice harsh. "I did."
"Why?" It was a simple question, but a loaded one. He didn't answer immediately, trying to figure out the surge of emotions that he was feeling.
Because no one had ever done that before.
Because guards were paid to step into the line of fire. Trained for it. Expected to die if necessary.
Because she hadn't been.
Because she'd moved before thinking, before weighing cost or benefit, before knowing who he was.
"You saved me," he said at last, the words feeling right in his mouth. That was the part that bothered him the most.
She glanced at him, her brows furrowing in confusion. "What?"
"You didn't hesitate. You jumped in front of a gun to save me."
She shrugged carefully. "Someone was about to get shot."
"And yet… you didn't duck and cover or run away like everyone else in the café did. You stayed. You tried to… protect me. Someone you don't know. I don't know if that makes you stupid or idiotic."
"Those are the same word," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Besides, I assumed someone should do something," she continued. "And no one else did."
Dante looked at her hands. They were small and steady. Smudged with dried blood that wasn't hers.
"You owe me nothing," she added quietly. "I don't want your protection. Or your money. Or your house."
"I owe you a life," Dante grunted, refusing to back down.
She laughed under her breath. "That's not how it works."
"In my world, that's exactly how it works."
The woman turned her head toward him, studying his face. "So what happens now?"
Dante stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel his presence again. He rested his hand at the back of her neck without thinking, grounding himself in the contact.
"You stay," he replied, a slight smile on his face.
Her eyes narrowed. "And if I say no?"
"You already did," he replied. "And it changed nothing."
She stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "You're impossible."
"I'm glad you noticed."
Her gaze dropped to his hand but he refused to move it away.
For the first time since the café, Dante felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that letting her walk away now would be the worst decision he could ever make.