The Don’s Deadly Cure

Chapter 2- NADIA

I didn’t move. I barely breathed.

“How do you know my name?” I whispered, the surgical needle still clenched between my fingers.

There was no answer.

The man had slipped back into unconsciousness, his breathing shallow and uneven. If he had heard me at all, there was no sign of it. Still, the sound of my name lingered in my head, heavy and wrong, as if it had been pulled from me rather than spoken.

I shook the thought away and forced myself to focus.

I cleaned the last of the blood from his side and noticed something that made me pause. His eyes. One was a sharp, pale blue. The other was a deep, earthy green. Heterochromia. Rare. Striking. On a man like him, it felt less like a quirk and more like a warning.

I finished the final stitch with care, tying it off neatly despite the tremor in my hands. I was trained for precision. Brains. Nerves. Millimeters that decided entire lives. Yet my pulse would not slow.

I stepped back and took in the room.

It looked nothing like the luxury suite I had checked into the night before. Bloodied towels were stacked in the corner. The scent of iron clung to the air, barely masked by hotel soap and expensive cologne. The gun I had kicked under the sofa sat where it was, silent and patient.

I could still leave.

I could call downstairs. Say nothing. Say everything. Let someone else deal with the consequences.

But his words echoed in my head.

You call, and we are both dead.

I did not know who he was, but I knew one thing. Whoever had put that bullet in him would not hesitate to finish the job.

I cleaned. Quietly. Methodically. I scrubbed the marble until my hands ached. I sealed the towels into my suitcase. By the time dawn brushed pale gold across the Milan skyline, the room looked almost untouched.

Almost.

He lay on the chaise longue, unconscious but alive. His face was calm in sleep, though his hands remained curled into fists, as if even the rest was something he had to fight for.

I sat across from him with a cooling espresso, watching his chest rise and fall. I told myself I was monitoring him. That I was being responsible. That this was temporary.

Exhaustion won anyway.

I bolted upright, my neck stiff and my heart immediately jumping into a frantic rhythm. "Hello?" I croaked, my voice dry.

The chaise longue was empty. The velvet was still indented from his weight, and a faint, rusty smear marked where he had rested, but the man was gone. I scrambled to my feet, checking the bathroom, the closet, the balcony. Nothing. The heavy oak door was locked and bolted from the inside. He had managed to leave without making a sound.

My gaze fell on the nightstand. My medical symposium ID badge—the one I had tucked inside my briefcase—was sitting neatly out in the open. Next to it was a small piece of cream-colored hotel stationery.

I picked it up with trembling fingers. The handwriting was elegant, deliberate, and entirely unfamiliar.

"You have saved a life tonight, though I do not yet know the face behind these hands. Consider this a debt I intend to repay, for actions like yours do not go unnoticed. Beware of the world you step into and the choices you make, for the future has a way of calling in what is owed. Keep your wits sharp, your heart guarded, and your hands steady. One day, the account will be settled."

At the bottom, a simple initial: L.

I clutched the note, my pulse racing. He had left no hint of who he was, only a promise. A warning. And the certainty that somehow, our paths would cross again.

I sank back into the armchair, staring at the note as if it held the answers I didn’t yet have. The room smelled faintly of cedarwood and iron, the memory of the night pressing heavy against me. I had come to Milan to present research, to focus on healing brains and bodies. Instead, I had become part of a story I didn’t yet understand, tangled in a debt that wasn’t mine… at least, not yet.