Chapter 13: Fragments
667 Words
The room smelled of antiseptic instead of fresh paint.
It was strange what the mind chose to remember.
Only yesterday morning, Sofia had been standing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Bellini Art Gallery, arguing with a colleague about the placement of a seventeenth-century landscape.
"The light catches the frame better on the east wall," she had insisted.
She smiled to herself.
She used to believe that was a difficult decision.
Now she was standing inside a mafia king's private study, peeling away blood-soaked bandages from his shoulder while armed guards stood outside the door.
Life had changed in less than twenty-four hours.
Sometimes she wondered if she'd wake up and discover this was all a nightmare.
She gently lifted the edge of the dressing.
Luca didn't move.
Didn't complain.
Didn't even flinch.
The wound, however, told a different story.
The stitches had torn apart.
Fresh blood seeped through angry, inflamed skin.
"You reopened it twice," she murmured.
Luca remained silent.
She glanced up.
"Do you ever listen to doctors?"
"I rarely have time."
"You'd have more time if you stopped getting shot."
A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Almost a smile.
She shook her head.
"There it is."
"What?"
"The first sign you're actually human."
That earned her a quiet huff of amusement.
It wasn't laughter.
But it was close.
Sofia reached for a clean needle and thread prepared by the estate doctor.
Her fingers hesitated.
"I've never stitched someone before."
"You'll manage."
"You sound very confident."
"I am."
She frowned.
"You don't even know if I can do this."
Luca looked at her calmly.
"You notice everything."
She paused.
"What?"
"The painting in the hallway."
"You saw it was crooked before anyone else."
"The wound."
"You noticed it had reopened before my men did."
He held her gaze.
"You don't panic."
"You observe."
It was the longest sentence she'd ever heard him speak.
For a moment, Sofia forgot she was treating one of the most dangerous men in Italy.
She remembered being twenty-three, standing in front of a newly restored painting with a magnifying glass in hand.
Most visitors admired the artwork.
She admired the tiny brushstrokes.
The hidden cracks beneath layers of varnish.
The details others walked past without noticing.
"I suppose that's what curators do," she said quietly.
"We spend our lives looking for what everyone else misses."
Luca nodded once.
"And that's exactly why you're in danger."
The words settled heavily between them.
She threaded the needle.
"Hold still."
Without warning, lightning flashed outside the tall windows.
The study brightened for a split second.
She caught sight of the scars scattered across Luca's back.
Old scars.
Knife wounds.
Bullet wounds.
Some so faded they had to be decades old.
She swallowed.
No one collected scars like that unless they had survived a lifetime of war.
Carefully, she began stitching the wound.
"You can tell me if it hurts."
"It hurts."
She blinked.
"You admitted it?"
"I'm not a liar."
She laughed softly.
"I thought mafia bosses were supposed to pretend they're invincible."
"I've never claimed to be invincible."
"Only stubborn."
"That too."
Silence settled comfortably between them.
Not awkward.
Not forced.
Just... quiet.
For the first time since arriving at the estate, Sofia wasn't afraid of Luca.
She was curious.
As she tied the final stitch, she stepped back to examine her work.
"There."
"It should hold this time."
Luca looked down at the fresh bandage.
Then back at her.
"Thank you."
She stared.
It was the first time he'd thanked her.
Before she could respond, a knock came at the door.
Matteo entered without a word.
His expression was grim.
He looked at Luca.
Then at Sofia.
"Boss..."
"A guest has arrived."
Luca's eyes narrowed.
"I wasn't expecting anyone."
Matteo hesitated.
"Neither were we."
"He says..."
"...he was sent by Isabella."
The room fell silent.
Sofia's heart skipped a beat.
"That's impossible."
She had been told Isabella was dead.
So who had just walked through the gates?
- Writer
