Chapter Three – Isabella Romano POV
Mornings were not my favorite.
I woke before the alarm, as usual. My apartment—if one could even call it that—was a studio wedged on the edge of London, small enough that I could take in every corner without lifting my head from the pillow. The gray light filtering through the blinds didn't brighten the space; it only made the cracked paint and secondhand furniture look paler, emptier.
Six stirred at the foot of the bed. My dog, shaggy-coated and stubbornly loyal, yawned and thumped his tail against the sheets. I had named him without much thought. He was the sixth stray I'd taken in. The others hadn't stayed, but he had.
"Morning, Six," I whispered.
He tilted his head expectantly. A reminder: he needed feeding before I could even think about myself. I shuffled into the kitchenette, small as a closet, and went through the ritual—kettle on, dog bowl filled, pills lined neatly on the counter. Coffee for me. Kibble for him. Routines kept us both steady.
The phone vibrated, buzzing against the chipped counter. I didn't need to check the screen to know. My mother. I stood for a moment, debating whether I had the energy, then swiped to answer.
"Mamma," I said, trying for brightness that didn't reach my bones.
Her voice poured through the line, warm but edged with loneliness. "Isabella, when are you coming home? The house feels so empty. I sit at the table and it's just me and the silence. Even Domenico is never around. You know how he is."
I pinched the bridge of my nose, staring at the steam curling from the kettle. "I know, Mamma. But I can't leave right now. The clinic needs me."
"You're always too busy," she sighed. "Always hiding in that little city place. Don't you miss me? Don't you miss home?"
Of course I missed her. I missed the smell of her cooking, the sound of her humming as she moved around the kitchen. But home wasn't simple anymore. Home was a cage filled with whispers, a town where everyone knew my mistakes, where my broken engagement with Gallo was still picked apart over café counters.
"I'll visit soon," I promised softly. "I'll call again tonight. Okay?"
Her voice softened too, weary but accepting. "Okay, my love. Just don't forget me."
As if I ever could.
---
The clinic was called St. Augustine's Medical Centre, though the name sounded grander than the building deserved. Wedged between a laundromat and a butcher's shop, its glass doors opened onto flickering lights and linoleum that never quite lost its stains. The sign outside peeled in the corners. Still, it was ours, and every day it carried the weight of too many people needing more than we could give.
When Isabella arrived, rain still clinging to her coat, she found Chiara Fontano at reception, perched on the counter with her legs crossed. Chiara never entered a room quietly. Her hair was twisted in a messy bun, her lips painted red, her laugh already filling the space even before she noticed Isabella.
"Finally," Chiara announced, snapping her magazine shut. "Do you know how many people are already here? Fourteen. Fourteen before ten in the morning. This place is turning into a battlefield."
I brushed droplets from my shoulders. "You exaggerate."
"Exaggerate? Go look at the waiting room. One man's hacking up his lungs, a woman swears she's been poisoned, and some boy broke his arm playing football in the street. Fourteen people. Four doctors. Including you. And me—running this circus without pay worthy of my genius." She smirked. "I should charge admission."
I shot her a look that only made her laugh harder.
The other two doctors, Patel and Hughes, were already behind their doors, buried in patients. That left me with the overflow. I tied back my hair, scrubbed my hands, and started moving room to room, listening, stitching, prescribing.
Patients often leaned closer, drawn to my quietness. I didn't chatter, didn't fill silence with false comfort. I let them speak until their words shaped the truth of their wounds. My calm steadied them, even as inside my mind ticked constantly, taking in every detail—how their shoulders hunched, how their eyes shifted, how pain showed in small tremors.
By late morning, my stomach was gnawing at itself. I'd forgotten breakfast again. But there was no time to stop.
---
He waited until the clinic was at its busiest.
Gallo always knew when to strike.
I saw him before he spoke—scrubs perfectly pressed, hair slicked back, the same old intensity burning in his eyes. He hadn't changed. He probably never would.
"Isabella," he said, low and smooth. Practiced.
I didn't look up from the patient chart. "What do you want, Gallo?"
"To talk. Just a moment. Please."
"I'm working."
"You're always working." His tone sharpened, the same edge that once made me fold into silence. "Why do you keep running from me? I made mistakes, I admit that. But we were good together once. We can be good again."
Good. That was his word for the nights he tracked every call, every late return home, every dress he thought too revealing. Control wrapped in devotion.
"I'm not coming back," I said evenly. "We're finished."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You think anyone else will look after you the way I did? These people, this city—they don't care about you. I did. I still do. Don't throw that away."
I finally met his eyes. "Leave me alone."
For a moment, the mask slipped and I saw the anger simmering beneath. Then he smiled, cold. "You'll change your mind."
He left before Chiara could storm over, though I caught her watching, brows raised. She mouthed, coward. I wasn't sure whether she meant him or me.
---
By evening, the rain had turned heavy, drumming against the windows. The storm's rhythm pressed against the clinic like a warning. Inside, the waiting room was nearly empty, chairs stacked, the smell of disinfectant strong.
Then the black car pulled up outside.
Two men came first, steadying a third between them. His suit was ruined, his shirt soaked dark. Blood. The moment they entered, the air shifted.
Chiara froze mid-sentence. Even the receptionist stilled.
The silver-haired man stepped in front, tall and commanding. His eyes swept the room with calculated precision. His presence was sharp enough to slice through the silence.
"Marcello," the scarred man muttered, steadying the wounded one, "we need to move quick."
Marcello. That was the first name.
The scarred one—restless, with a predator's gaze—adjusted his grip and added, "He's losing too much blood, Marcello."
And then Marcello answered him, his voice low but unwavering. "Enzo, keep him steady. We're almost there."
Enzo. The second name.
Between them was the one they called boss.
Even wounded, he radiated something that bent the room to silence. His suit clung to his frame, ruined by blood, but he walked upright, refusing to falter. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard, dark.
Marcello's voice was polite, but the weight behind it silenced protest. "We need a doctor."
Chiara's eyes flicked to me. "Isabella."
My chest tightened, but I nodded.
---
The examination room felt smaller with them inside. Marcello stationed himself near the door, a silent sentinel. Enzo prowled, restless, his presence heavy. And the man they called boss lowered himself onto the table as though the blood loss were merely an inconvenience.
I moved automatically—gloves, gauze, antiseptic, sutures. My voice steady, my hands precise. "Jacket off. I need to see the wound."
He obeyed, not speaking, but his eyes stayed fixed on me, unblinking, as though weighing every movement.
The bullet had passed clean through. Muscle torn, bleeding heavy but not fatal. He was lucky—or perhaps unlucky, depending on who had pulled the trigger.
I pressed gauze to his side, felt the hot rush seep through. My focus narrowed to needle and thread, to the rhythm of stitching skin back together. He didn't flinch. Not once.
Marcello stood like stone, watching. Enzo shifted, fingers twitching as though itching for violence.
They called him boss. Whoever he was, he carried that title like a second skin.
When I finished, I stripped off the gloves. My voice was calm, clipped. "You'll live. But you need rest. No sudden movements. If you tear this open again, you may not be so fortunate."
His gaze lifted from my hands to my face. Dark. Searching.
"You'll live," I repeated.
Marcello inclined his head slightly. "Thank you, Doctor. Your name?"
For a moment, silence held. My lips parted, then closed. Something in me resisted giving it freely.
Marcello cleared his throat. "We should leave."
The wounded man rose slowly, adjusting his ruined jacket as if daring the world to see weakness. His eyes lingered on me, unreadable—not gratitude, not warmth. Only calculation.
And then they were gone, leaving behind the faint metallic smell of blood and the undeniable certainty that my world had just shifted