"𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑺𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑳𝑫 𝑲𝑬𝑬𝑷 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒚," 𝑨𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒅. His hands moved with practiced precision, securing the bandage tightly around my palm. The fabric bit into my skin, but I didn't flinch.
His touch was efficient, mechanical—a testament to years of honing his craft—but devoid of any warmth. Tonight, the doctor was a man of necessity, not empathy. The only sounds in the room were the soft hiss of the rain outside and my uneven breaths, each one sharp and ragged.
I was back at the villa after the encounter with Rosalie. The confrontation still clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake. Carmello had been the one to escort me back, his presence a quiet storm beside me, while Ryder trailed behind, his usual flippant demeanor absent. The air between us thrummed with tension, a cord stretched tight, ready to snap.
Carmello now stood in the corner of the room, his disheveled hair mirroring the distress etched into his features. He had abandoned his coat to the arm of a chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up as if he were bracing himself for a fight. He watched Amelio work. His discomfort was palpable, though he kept it carefully restrained, his hand occasionally brushing over his brow. He looked more like a soldier between battles than a friend.
My gaze wandered, drawn to an imperfection in the doctor's immaculate suit—a single piece of lint clinging stubbornly to his lapel. It was absurdly out of place, like a whisper of chaos in his otherwise pristine demeanor. Amelio hadn't attended the funeral, but grief had hollowed his features all the same. He mourned not with tears, but with silence and focus, each movement of his hands a tribute to the Rossi dynasty.
With a final tug, Amelio finished his work, tying off the bandage with a precision that bordered on harshness. He stood, packing away his tools with the same methodical efficiency. His eyes never met mine.
