Bound By Blood And Love

BOUND #3

SHYANN

As I was leaving the narrow alley, I noticed three shadows. They seemed to be struggling to walk, so I went closer—and that’s when I saw them. Three men, covered in blood.

I gasped in shock. Two of them were unconscious, while the other was barely managing to keep his eyes open.

“Help u—” he tried to say, but his voice faltered.

“You don’t need to waste your strength,” I whispered, already moving to support him.

Thankfully, the bar wasn’t far from my apartment. That meant the alley wasn’t too distant either—but it also meant I couldn’t just walk away. If I left them there, someone else might find them. Or worse, their attackers could return.

I helped him stand, his arm hooked over me as he clutched onto his companions. With each step, we drew closer to my building.

By the time we reached my apartment, I was exhausted from the weight of supporting them. I quickly laid them down on my bed.

“I’m very sorry about this incident,” he murmured weakly. “And… I’m thankful for your help.”

Then, before I could respond, he lost consciousness.

I immediately tended to the three of them. There was no denying how strikingly handsome they were—like they had just stepped out of a magazine cover.

Their faces looked familiar too. I realized I had seen them before—on billboards whenever I wandered around Rome.

The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. These weren’t just three men; they were them.

I’d walked past their images a dozen times, their smoldering looks and perfect, sculpted features selling everything from expensive cologne to luxury watches.

Athos, Primo, and Silvestro. The triple-threat modeling/business trio who were, by all accounts, the darlings of the Italian fashion/business scene. And now they were bleeding out on my cheap IKEA duvet cover.

Panic, cold and sharp, prickled at the back of my neck. What had I done? Bringing three incredibly famous, brutally attacked strangers into my home was a recipe for a disaster I couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

But the coppery scent of blood and the shallow, ragged breathing of the one who’d spoken—Primo, I was almost sure—anchored me to the grim reality. There was no going back.

I moved on autopilot, a frantic flurry of action smothering the rising tide of fear. I fetched my well-stocked first-aid kit—a relic from a brief, misguided ambition to become a nurse—and a basin of warm water.

My hands trembled as I gently cut away the remnants of their ruined, designer clothes, revealing the wounds beneath.

It was worse than I’d initially thought. Deep, ugly gashes that weren't from any random mugging. They looked precise, calculated. Primo had a s***h across his ribs that needed stitches.

Athos, the one with the darkest hair, had a worrying bruise spreading across his temple, and his right arm was bent at an unnatural angle.

Silvestro, the most boyishly handsome of the three, was paler than the others, a stab wound high on his thigh still seeping blood.

My apartment, usually a sanctuary of quiet solitude, was now an emergency room. The air grew thick with the smell of antiseptic and sweat.

I worked methodically, cleaning, disinfecting, stitching, and bandaging with a focus I didn't know I possessed. The mundane sounds of the city outside—the distant wail of a scooter, the chatter of neighbors—felt like they were coming from another universe.

Hours bled into one another. By the time I had done all I could, the first faint light of dawn was painting grey streaks across the sky.

I slumped into the lone armchair in the corner, physically and emotionally drained. I must have dozed off, because the sound of a low, pained groan jolted me awake.

Primo was stirring, his eyelids fluttering open. His gaze, clouded with pain and confusion, swept across the unfamiliar ceiling before landing on me. For a moment, there was only raw, animal fear in his eyes. Then, recognition softened his features.

“You,” he rasped, his voice a dry leaf scraping on stone. “The alley.”

I hurried over with a glass of water, supporting his head as he took a few small sips. “Easy,” I murmured. “You’re safe. You’re in my apartment.”

He sank back onto the pillow, his energy spent. His eyes, a startling shade of hazel flecked with gold, studied me with an intensity that was unnerving. “Your name?” he asked.

“Shyann,” I said.

“Shyann,” he repeated, as if testing the weight of it. “Thank you, Shyann. For not… for not running.”

“What happened to you?” The question finally escaped, hanging in the tense space between us.

"You should not know about this Shyann, we're dangerous people not only in Business. We're thankful that you take care of me and my brothers. Don't worry we will repay you." He said coldy, sending shivers on my spine.

A chill, colder than the morning air, snaked its way down my spine. His words hung in the air, heavy and menacing, contradicting the vulnerability he’d shown just moments before.

My initial fear, which had been pushed aside by the urgency of their injuries, returned with a vengeance. But beneath it, a stubborn flicker of indignation ignited.

"In too deep?" I echoed, my voice steadier than I felt. I took a deliberate step closer to the bed, crossing my arms. "Primo, I just spent the entire night cutting designer clothes off you and stitching wounds that look like they came from a gang war, not a boardroom meeting. I think I'm already in too deep not to know. What in the world happened to you?"

His startling hazel eyes, now clear of the immediate fog of pain, narrowed slightly, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. He seemed to be weighing my words, assessing me.

For a moment, neither of us spoke, the only sounds the faint city hum and the shallow breaths of his unconscious companions.

Then, just as I thought he might offer a reluctant explanation, another low groan rippled through the room. Athos, the one with the dark hair and the bruised temple, stirred.

His eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes as dark and impenetrable as Primo’s were striking. He blinked, clearly disoriented, before his gaze settled on his surroundings – my cramped apartment, the bandages on his arm, and then on Primo, and finally, on me.

A flash of something unreadable – suspicion? alarm? – crossed his face, before his jaw tightened. He tried to push himself up, wincing sharply as he did, his movement sending a jolt through his injured arm.

“Easy,” I quickly said, moving to offer support. “You’re badly hurt. Try not to move too much.”

Athos ignored me, his dark eyes locked on Primo. “Where are we?” he rasped, his voice rougher, more gravelly than Primo’s. “What happened?”

Primo merely inclined his head towards me. "She found us, Athos. Brought us here." His gaze returned to me, a silent warning in their depths. "Shyann, this is Athos."

Before I could properly acknowledge the introduction, a third cough, weaker than the others, drew our attention. Silvestro, paler than both of them, was also beginning to stir.

His eyes, a soft blue, fluttered open, wide with confusion and pain. He looked at his bandaged thigh, then at his brothers, and finally at me, a silent question in his gaze.

The small apartment suddenly felt crowded, my sanctuary invaded by a potent mix of danger, wealth, and raw, masculine injury. Three sets of famous, intense eyes were now fixed on me, demanding answers I didn’t have and explanations I couldn’t give.

The cold realization that my simple act of kindness had plunged me into a situation far beyond anything I could have imagined settled heavily in my stomach. This wasn't just about first aid anymore. This was a nightmare I had willingly, naively, walked into.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I stood there, a simple translator who’d traded a quiet evening for a high-stakes drama I didn't understand, pinned under the combined gaze of the three most recognizable men in Rome.

Athos was the first to break the standoff. With a grimace of pure agony, he forced himself to a sitting position, his good hand braced against the mattress. His dark eyes, sharp and analytical even through the pain, scanned the room—the modest furniture, the books piled by the window, the bloodied rags in the basin.

“A private residence,” he stated, his voice like grinding stone. It wasn’t a question. He was cataloging, assessing threats and exits.

Silvestro, his boyish features etched with pain, tried to shift and gasped, his hand flying to the bandage on his thigh. “What is the last thing you remember?” he asked his brothers, his voice surprisingly gentle compared to Athos’s grit and Primo’s cold warning.

“The car,” Primo said, his voice low. “The black van that cut us off after the gala.” He was watching me as he spoke, testing my reaction to this sliver of information.

A gala. A black van. It sounded like a spy thriller, not the life of fashion moguls.

“They were… efficient,” Athos bit out, gently probing the splint I’d fashioned for his arm. “Professional. They knew what they were doing.” His gaze finally landed squarely on me, and the suspicion in it was a physical force. “And you. You just happened to be in that alley.”

The accusation hung in the air. My indignation, which had been simmering since Primo’s icy dismissal, finally boiled over. “Yes,” I said, my voice cool. “I was walking home from work. A concept you’re probably unfamiliar with. I saw three shadows struggling. I didn’t see ‘Athos, Primo, and Silvestro, darlings of the business scene.’ I saw three men who were going to bleed to death on the cobblestones if someone didn’t help.”

I gestured to the medical detritus around the room. “I used an entire roll of stitches on Primo’s ribs. I set your arm as best I could without an X-ray. The stab wound in Silvestro’s thigh missed the femoral artery by a centimeter. If you think this was some elaborate plot, you’re giving me far too much credit and not nearly enough gratitude.”

My little speech was met with another weighted silence. Primo’s intense stare had softened a fraction, a flicker of what might have been shame crossing his features. Silvestro looked genuinely apologetic.