Isabella's apartment was small.
There was a sofa, a wooden table, a tiny kitchen, and one bedroom.
The furniture was old, but the room was clean.
Dante looked around.
“This is where you live?”
Isabella frowned.
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing.”
He lowered himself onto the sofa.
His face tightened with pain.
Isabella immediately went to the bathroom and returned with a first-aid box.
“Let me see your wound.”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Why?”
“Because you're bleeding!”
“Don't shout at me.”
“I'm not shouting!”
He slowly looked up at her.
Isabella immediately became quiet.
“Sorry.”
She placed the first-aid box on the table.
“Please remove your shirt. I need to clean the wound.”
Dante stared at her.
“Are you giving me orders now?”
She looked at him in disbelief.
“Would you prefer to bleed to death on my sofa?”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he removed his shirt.
Isabella saw the wound near his chest.
Her face turned pale.
“Oh, God!”
“Can you treat it?”
“I don't know. I'm not a doctor.”
“Then do what you can.”
Isabella took a deep breath.
She carefully cleaned the wound and placed a fresh dressing over it.
Dante watched her face.
She was clearly frightened, but she continued helping him.
“What's your name?” he asked.
“Isabella.”
“Full name.”
“Isabella Romano.”
He studied her for a moment.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Do you always help strangers?”
“No. Most strangers don't point guns at my head.”
A small smile appeared on his lips.
Almost.
She finished dressing the wound and stepped back.
“You need proper medical treatment. I can clean the wound, but I can't treat a gunshot injury.”
“No hospital.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
She folded her arms.
“That isn't a good reason.”
His expression became cold.
“Do you want to argue with me?”
“No. I want you to stop bleeding in my living room.”
Dante leaned back on the sofa.
His strength was fading.
For the first time that night, he realised he might not be able to leave the apartment without help.
He looked at Isabella.
“Bring me some water.”
She brought him a glass.
He drank slowly.
Then he placed the glass on the table.
“Where is your bedroom?”
Isabella pointed towards the door.
“Over there.”
“Go to sleep.”
She stared at him.
“What will you do?”
“I'll stay here.”
She hesitated.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
Dante looked directly into her eyes.
“Not unless you give me a reason.”
That wasn't the answer she had wanted.
But she didn't have the courage to ask anything else.
She went into her bedroom and closed the door.
Dante remained on the sofa with his gun beside him.
He couldn't trust Isabella.
In truth, he didn't trust anyone.
But as the hours passed, the pain increased, and his eyes slowly closed.
For the first time in years, the feared Don Moretti fell asleep in a stranger's home.
To be continued...