Leo collapses onto the sofa with a shoulder wound. The heavy leather cushions groan under his massive weight as he slides down, his head falling back against the frame. His face is the color of old milk, slick with a greasy sweat that makes the dirt on his forehead run in dark streaks.
Dante doesn't panic; he grabs a medical kit from the wall. He moves with a terrifying, robotic efficiency, his fingers ripping the metal box off its brackets with a sharp crack. He slams it down onto the kitchen island, the plastic bottles and sterile gauze rattling loudly inside.
"How many, Leo?" Dante asks. His voice is completely level, a flat line of pure ice that doesn't acknowledge the blood currently dripping onto the dark rug.
"Six... maybe eight," Leo gasps out, his teeth clenching tightly as he lifts his hand from the wound. A fresh wave of dark crimson bubbles up from the tear in his flesh, soaking the shredded fabric of his shirt. "They didn't use the front gates. They came through the old coal chute on the north side. They have suppressors, Dante. Two of our guards went down before they could even hit the alarm."
Dante draws a heavy pair of medical shears from the kit, his amber eyes narrowing as he steps toward the sofa. He doesn't look at his brother's face; he looks at the damage.
I stand frozen by the counter, my fingers digging into the cold steel edge. I see the way the blood is pulsing out—not a slow ooze, but a steady, heavy rhythm that tells me the bullet hit something deep. Dante lines up the shears against Leo's bloody sleeve, his large hands positioning the metal blades, but his movements are too stiff. He is a hunter, a killer, a king—he knows how to make holes, not how to mend them.
My baking instincts kick in—I know how to handle burns and cuts.
I’ve spent seven years in front of a six-hundred-degree wood-fired oven. I’ve sliced my palms open on industrial dough cutters; I’ve watched my head decorator slice through a finger with a serrated knife. I know what a clean cut looks like, and I know exactly what happens when panic makes your fingers clumsy. If Dante rips that fabric away too fast, the jagged edge of the bullet hole will tear the artery completely.
Before the blades can snip, I step forward. My bare feet make no sound on the polished concrete.
I push Dante's hands away and take the needle.
"Gianna, get back," Dante growls, his jaw tightening into a rigid sheet of marble as I wedge my body between him and the sofa. He reaches for my shoulder to pull me away, his grip heavy and commanding.
"You're going to tear the flesh," I say, my voice dropping into a sharp, authoritative tone I usually reserve for lazy kitchen assistants. I don't look up at him. I keep my eyes glued to Leo's shoulder. "The silk is embedded in the wound. If you pull it, he’ll bleed out on your couch before you can get the gauze out."
Dante’s hand freezes on my shoulder. For one long, agonizing second, the only sound in the basement is Leo’s ragged, wet breathing. Then, slowly, the pressure of Dante’s fingers relaxes. He steps back a fraction of an inch, his amber eyes burning a hole into the side of my face as he relinquishes the field.
"Do it fast," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that dark, dangerous purr.
I drop to my knees on the rug beside Leo. The smell of fresh copper and burning powder is overwhelming, but I force it out of my mind. I treat the skin like raw dough—delicate, prone to tearing, requiring a steady, light touch.
I take the shears from Dante’s hand. I don't pull the fabric; I cut a wide circle around the wound, carefully lifting the bloody gray wool away from the entry point. The bullet is deep, nestled right beneath the collarbone. It missed the main artery by an inch, but the jagged metal has chewed through the muscle.
"Hold him down," I tell Dante, reaching into the white plastic box for the bottle of clear antiseptic and the curved suture needle.
Leo looks at me through bleary, bloodshot eyes, a faint, twisted smile touching his pale face.