POV: Emilia Conti
I was halfway through my breakfast when the door unlocked again.
This time, no chime. No warning.
I looked up slowly, fork paused midair, every muscle in my body tightening.
Alessio stepped in.
Not through the screen. Not as a voice behind glass.
Physically. Fully. Real.
He wore a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, no jacket, no visible weapon. That alone made him more dangerous. Men like him didn't need to advertise power.
"Good," he said, glancing at the tray. "You're eating."
I set the fork down carefully. "You don't knock."
"I don't ask permission in my own house."
I held his gaze. "This isn't your bedroom."
"No," he agreed. "It's yours."
That didn't make it better.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"You," he replied. Then corrected himself. "Your skills."
I stood slowly. "Be specific."
He gestured toward the door. "Come with me."
My pulse spiked. "Where?"
"To treat a patient."
I almost laughed. "You're joking."
"I don't joke about injuries."
I crossed my arms. "You have doctors."
"I have men who patch wounds," he said. "I need a surgeon."
"For whom?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
"That's not how this works," I said. "You don't summon me like—"
"You're not being summoned," he interrupted calmly. "You're being asked."
I studied his face, searching for the tell. The pressure. The threat.
There wasn't one.
"You want my help," I said slowly.
"Yes."
"And if I say no?"
A pause.
"Then I'll respect your refusal," he said. "And find another solution."
I frowned. "That's new."
"I adapt," he replied.
I didn't trust it. But I also didn't miss the opportunity.
"Fine," I said. "But my terms."
His eyebrow lifted slightly. "I'm listening."
"I'm a doctor," I continued. "Not your asset. Not your leverage. If I treat someone, it's because I decide to."
"Accepted."
"And I don't work under guard breathing down my neck."
"Negotiable."
"I need proper equipment."
"You'll have it."
"And I need to know who I'm treating," I added. "At least medically."
He held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded once. "Fair."
That was the first time he'd agreed to something without arguing it down.
We walked through the penthouse in silence. The guards moved instinctively, opening doors, clearing paths. I noticed how Alessio adjusted his pace to mine without making it obvious.
That annoyed me more than if he hadn't.
The room we entered wasn't a hospital, but it was close enough to make my chest tighten. Clean surfaces. Bright lights. A fully stocked medical cart.
Someone lay on the table.
Male. Mid-twenties. Pale. Sweat beading along his temples. A deep gash ran across his thigh, bleeding through a hastily applied bandage.
Gunshot graze. Close range.
I stepped forward automatically, professionalism taking over before fear could interfere.
"When?" I asked.
"An hour ago."
"Vitals?"
"Stable. For now."
I snapped on gloves. "He's lucky."
"That's not his usual condition."
I cut away the bloodied fabric, examining the wound. "Bullet skimmed muscle. Missed the femoral artery by millimeters."
I glanced up sharply. "If this had been any deeper, he'd be dead."
"I know," Alessio said.
I cleaned the wound, working efficiently, my focus narrowing to the body in front of me. This—this was familiar. This made sense.
The young man groaned.
"Easy," I murmured. "You're fine. I've got you."
His eyes flicked open briefly. They widened when they saw Alessio.
"Boss—"
"Quiet," Alessio said. "You're being treated."
The man nodded immediately, fear overriding pain.
I stitched carefully, movements precise. When I finished, I stepped back and stripped off my gloves.
"He'll walk with a limp for a while," I said. "But he'll live."
"Thank you," Alessio replied.
I met his gaze. "That doesn't mean I endorse what you do."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"Then don't mistake cooperation for agreement."
A muscle in his jaw flexed. "Noted."
The man was moved out quickly, efficiently. The room cleared until it was just the two of us again.
I washed my hands slowly, grounding myself in the ritual.
"You didn't interfere," I said without turning around.
"I know better than to interrupt a surgeon," he replied.
I dried my hands and faced him. "You also kept your word."
"Yes."
"That matters."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "Does it?"
"It's called trust," I said. "And it doesn't come cheap."
"I don't buy it," he replied. "I earn it."
"That remains to be seen."
I moved to leave.
"Emilia," he said.
I paused but didn't turn.
"You were calm," he continued. "Even knowing who he was."
"I don't care who someone is when they're bleeding," I replied. "Only how badly."
"That's dangerous," he said.
"For you," I countered. "Not for me."
Silence stretched between us again.
"Your restraint earlier," he said finally. "Negotiating instead of refusing outright."
I turned back to him. "Don't read into it."
"I do," he replied. "It tells me you're thinking beyond escape."
"That's because escape without a plan is suicide."
"And what is your plan?"
I held his gaze steadily. "To stay alive without becoming you."
Something unreadable crossed his expression.
"That," he said quietly, "may be the hardest thing you attempt."
"Good," I replied. "I don't trust easy victories."
A beat.
"You'll be expected to treat others," he said.
"I'll decide case by case."
"That won't always be convenient."
"I don't exist for convenience."
"No," he agreed. "You exist because you refuse to bend."
I didn't respond to that.
As I walked back toward my room, I felt something shift—small, subtle, but real.
For the first time since I'd been taken, I hadn't just reacted.
I'd negotiated.
I'd set boundaries.
And he had respected them.
That didn't make me free.
But it made me something else entirely.
Not a prisoner.
Not yet.