Chapter 1: Blood & First Glance
The first time Ethan Carter met Vincenzo Moretti, he was covered in blood—and somehow, that wasn't the most dangerous thing about him.
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It was past midnight when the call came in.
Not through the hospital line.
Not through any official channel.
But directly to Ethan.
Which already meant one thing—
This wasn't normal.
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Ethan stared at his phone for a second before answering, his expression calm, unreadable.
"Yes?"
A pause.
Then a voice, low and urgent:
"We need you. Private case. No records."
Ethan leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze shifting toward the glass window of his office. The city lights flickered in the distance, cold and distant—like they always were at this hour.
"How bad?" he asked.
Another pause.
Then—
"Bad enough that we're calling you."
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That was enough.
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Twenty minutes later, Ethan walked into a restricted wing of the hospital that technically didn't exist.
No nurses.
No noise.
Just silence.
The kind that felt… deliberate.
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The doors opened.
And that's when he saw him.
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A man sat on the edge of the bed, shirt half soaked in blood, dark fabric clinging to his skin. His head was slightly tilted downward, one hand pressed against his side, fingers stained red.
But what stood out—
wasn't the blood.
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It was the stillness.
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Most people in that condition would be restless. In pain. Panicking.
This man?
Didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even look up.
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Ethan stepped closer, unbothered.
"You're losing more blood than you should," he said calmly, placing his gloves on. "If you wanted attention, there were easier ways."
No reaction.
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Interesting.
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Ethan moved forward, reaching for the edge of the man's shirt.
"Sit still."
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The man's hand shot out instantly—
grabbing Ethan's wrist.
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Fast.
Strong.
Dangerous.
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For a second, the room shifted.
Not physically—
but something in the air changed.
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Ethan looked down at the hand gripping him.
Then slowly lifted his gaze.
And finally—
their eyes met.
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Dark.
Sharp.
Unreadable.
The kind of eyes that didn't ask questions—
they decided outcomes.
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Ethan didn't pull away.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't react.
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"Let go," he said, voice steady.
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A pause.
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Then—
the grip loosened.
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Not completely.
But enough.
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Ethan gently removed his wrist from the man's hold, like it hadn't mattered in the first place.
Which—
clearly—
it hadn't.
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"Good," he murmured, turning slightly to grab his tools. "Now try not to bleed out while I'm helping you."
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Still no response.
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Ethan began examining the wound.
Gunshot.
Clean entry.
Messy exit.
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"You've been walking around like this?" he asked.
Silence.
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Ethan sighed softly.
"Right. Of course you have."
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He started cleaning the wound, movements precise, controlled.
The man didn't react.
Didn't even tense.
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That was when Ethan noticed—
the scars.
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Faint.
Old.
Layered.
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This wasn't someone new to pain.
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Ethan worked in silence for a while, the only sound being the soft clink of metal instruments and the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
Then—
without looking up—
he spoke.
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"You should've come in sooner."
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A beat.
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Then finally—
a voice.
Low.
Calm.
Cold.
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"I don't like hospitals."
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Ethan raised a brow slightly, continuing his work.
"And yet here you are."
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No answer.
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Ethan glanced up briefly.
"You have a name?"
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Silence.
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"Alright," Ethan nodded. "I'll call you 'patient' then."
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Another pause.
Then—
"Vincenzo."
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Ethan stilled for half a second.
Not visibly.
But internally—
he noted it.
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"Vincenzo," he repeated, almost testing the name.
Then continued:
"I'm Ethan."
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"I know."
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That made Ethan look up.
Fully this time.
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Vincenzo was already watching him.
Not casually.
Not curiously.
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Intently.
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Ethan held his gaze for a moment.
Then—
returned to his work like it didn't matter.
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"Of course you do," he said calmly.
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Silence settled again.
But it wasn't empty anymore.
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It was… aware.
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After a while, Ethan finished stitching the wound, movements smooth and efficient.
"You'll live," he said, removing his gloves.
"Try not to get shot again. It's inconvenient."
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Vincenzo didn't move.
Didn't respond.
Just kept watching him.
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Ethan cleaned up his tools, completely ignoring the weight of that gaze.
"You'll need rest. No movement for at least a few days."
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A quiet scoff.
Almost amused.
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"I don't have that luxury."
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Ethan turned slightly.
"That's not my concern."
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Their eyes met again.
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And this time—
something shifted.
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Not power.
Not control.
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But recognition.
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Vincenzo tilted his head slightly, studying him.
"You talk like you don't know who I am."
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Ethan didn't hesitate.
"I don't need to."
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A pause.
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Then—
very faintly—
Vincenzo smiled.
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Not warm.
Not friendly.
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But real.
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"Interesting."
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Ethan didn't react.
"Is that all?"
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Vincenzo leaned back slightly, wincing just a little—barely noticeable.
"You're not afraid."
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It wasn't a question.
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Ethan met his gaze, expression unchanged.
"Should I be?"
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Silence.
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Heavy.
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Then—
Vincenzo looked away first.
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And somehow—
that felt like something.
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Ethan picked up his file, writing something briefly.
"You'll stay here tonight. I'll have someone check on you in the morning."
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"I don't need anyone."
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Ethan closed the file.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
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A beat.
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Then—
nothing.
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No argument.
No resistance.
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Ethan turned toward the door.
Paused.
Then said, without looking back:
"Try not to disappear before I come back."
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A quiet response came from behind him—
almost amused.
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"No promises, doctor."
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Ethan didn't smile.
Didn't react.
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But as he stepped out of the room—
something lingered.
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Not concern.
Not curiosity.
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Something else.
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And for the first time in a long while—
Ethan Carter felt it.
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The beginning of something…
he wasn't sure he could control.
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Inside the room—
Vincenzo sat in silence.
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Unmoving.
Unbothered.
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But his gaze—
remained fixed on the door long after it closed.
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"…Ethan Carter," he murmured quietly.
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And for a man who never stayed—
never looked back—
never got involved—
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That name—
lingered longer than it should have.
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And that—
was the first mistake.