Closer

At nine o'clock in the evening, I stood at the gates of the Rosso family estate. I unconsciously rubbed the black invitation card with gold foil lettering repeatedly with my fingertips. Dr. Elena Moore, Mr. Damian Rosso requests your presence. Beyond the iron gates, the mansion blazed with light. The floor-to-ceiling windows of the main building looked like a row of lit eyes. Everything glittered against the night, crystal chandeliers, black suits, champagne, diamonds on women's shoulders. The place was impossibly elegant and impossibly dangerous. Two months ago, I'd only heard rumors about this place—the home of mafia don Damian Rosso. And now, the man himself had invited me to his dinner party. I looked down at the name on the card, shimmering with a faint golden luster, and suddenly remembered the first time I saw him. Two months ago, late that night, I had just stepped out of the emergency room, my gloves still stained with blood, when the side door of the ER was slammed open with tremendous force. Two men in black burst in, bringing with them the smell of rain and blood. One pressed a gun against the nurse, while the other shoved a wounded man onto gurney. "Save him. Don't call the cops`. Don't register anything." The gun muzzle glinted coldly under the light. "Otherwise, none of you are getting out alive." The nurse's breath had already shattered. The gun was just inches from her temple. She couldn't stop crying as she looked at me in despair. Of course I was scared too, but when I looked at the bed, the man lying there had already lost too much blood. His white shirt was stained dark red. His chest rose and fell weakly, as if he would stop breathing any second. In the end, the doctor's instinct acted faster than fear. I gritted my teeth and walked over. Carefully, I unbuttoned the man's shirt and was just about to examine the wound when a sharp pain suddenly shot through my wrist. I looked down instinctively and met a pair of eyes as cold and stern as an eagle's. The man's black eyes were cold and sharp, like they could cut straight through any lie. Under the pale fluorescent light, the man's face was streaked with blood, and the crimson trickled along his jawline into his collar. He looked utterly disheveled, yet still so handsome that it stole my breath for a moment. Then the pain brought me back. "Listen, if you try anything stupid," his voice was hoarse, carrying a piercing coldness. "I promise you won't live to see tomorrow's sunrise." My heart was beating very fast, but I didn't pull my hand back. I just looked down at his wound and said. "If you don't let go of me, I promise, you won't see tomorrow's sun either." He stared at me, then suddenly smiled. That smile was light and dangerous, yet somehow it was impossible to look away from. "You don't seem afraid of me. Do you know who I am?" I cut open his shirt and pressed the gauze down firmly. Only when I heard him grunt did I look up at him. "Does it matter? Right now, you're just my patient. A very ordinary one." His smile faded, but the grip on my wrist slowly loosened. Blood smeared from his fingers onto my wrist, leaving a bright red handprint. I had thought that my connection with this mysterious stranger would forever remain on that rainy night. But then last night, when the banquet invitation arrived, I just realized that he was Damian Rosso. A side door in the iron gate creaked open, pulling me back to the present. A servant stepped out and gave a slight bow. "Dr. Moore?" I tucked the invitation into my handbag. "Yes." "Mr. Rosso is waiting for you." He turned to lead the way with an impeccably polite tone. "There are many guests tonight. Please don't wander into the wrong place alone." I understood. This wasn't a hospital. Opening the wrong door here might lead to more than just awkwardness. When the grand hall doors opened, music, champagne, and soft laughter all rushed out at once. I glanced down at my dress. A simple black silk dress, no unnecessary adornments. My dark chestnut hair, instead of being tied in a low ponytail as it was at work, was down, falling past my shoulders. I didn't look like an ER doctor anymore. I looked like a woman who'd wandered into a dangerous place. That was good. But when every gaze in the room landed on me at once, I still instinctively clutched my handbag tighter. No one here was speaking loudly, and no one had a gun drawn, yet it felt more tense than the ER that night. Before I could even get used to those stares, Damian Rosso turned from the other end of the room and looked at me. He was taller than I remembered. His jet-black hair was swept back neatly. A dark suit fit his broad shoulders. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. As he walked toward me, the surrounding laughter and chatter seemed to be muted by an invisible hand. Not everyone was looking at him, but everyone knew where he was. Power didn't always need noise. It just needed to show up. "Elena. You're ten minutes late." He stopped in front of me, holding a glass of red wine. His gaze traveled slowly from my face down to my wrist. There were no bloodstains there now. But the moment his eyes touched that spot, I felt again the cold press of his fingers from that night. "Doctors don't usually live by party schedules," I said. He smiled and took half a step closer. The scent of wine and his cool and woodsy cologne pressed in on me, making me instinctively hold my breath. "Do you always talk to people like that?" "It depends. Usually, only to those who need stitches and refuse to give their name." His eyes darkened for a moment, as if my words pleased him. "I didn't think you'd come." "I didn't think I would, either." I glanced around the hall. "But Mr. Rosso, you sent an invitation card." "So you came just because of that?" He tilted his head. "You are not afraid of me at all just like last time." He switched the wine glass to his other hand. His long fingers gripped the thin stem elegantly. For some reason, my eyes were drawn to the thin callus between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. I remembered how firmly his hands had gripped the edge of the gurney and how he hadn't furrowed his brow while I stitched his wound. Suddenly, I realized I was staring and awkwardly turned my face away, forcing myself to sound calm. "To be honest, I was just curious. I've never been to a place like this." He raised an eyebrow. His gaze on me grew darker. "Dear doctor, you should know curiosity is a dangerous word." "Then you shouldn't have invited me. Dear mafia don, you should know an invitation is a social gesture that's very hard to refuse." He let out a low laugh. His fingertip lightly brushed the back of my hand, as if giving me some hints. "Welcome to my home, Elena." The trace of warmth lasted too briefly. But it was enough to make my heart skip a beat. I hated that reaction, so I could only shift my attention to the center of the hall. The music stopped just then. On a small staircase, a young man raised his champagne glass. He had wavy light-brown hair, pale green eyes, and a bloodless face. A smile flickered on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are here tonight for the Rosso family, and for my father, Damian—'" His voice cut off abruptly, because he had seen me. The champagne glass wobbled in his hand. The hall's lights fell across his face, and I watched the color drain from his lips. He looked like something cold had just pierced straight through his chest. "Lorenzo?" someone whispered in reminder. So this was Lorenzo Vitale. Damian's adopted son. He stared at me. His expression shifted from confusion to shock. Then the glass slipped from his hand with a crash. 'Smash—' Shards of glass flew across the floor. The entire hall went dead silent. Lorenzo staggered back a step. He raised a trembling finger toward me, his lips quivering, his voice almost shattered. "Impossible… That's impossible!" His eyes fixed on my face as if he had already caught me. "You're supposed to be dead! I threw you into the sea…"