CHAPTER FOUR
The morning light filtering through the tall, unadorned windows of Cassia’s apartment was pale and cold, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor.
In her bedroom, Cassia woke up two minutes before her alarm was set to go off.
She reached out, silenced the digital clock on her nightstand, and lay perfectly still for a moment, staring at the familiar grey ceiling.
Today was Thursday. She had the evening rotation at the hospital, which meant she was scheduled from five o'clock until early the next day.
She took a slow, deep breath, running through the mental checklist of her day. Wake up. Shower. Breakfast. Update the backlog of patient charts she had brought home. Go to the hospital. Save lives. Come home.
It was a perfectly routine morning, save for the fact that she currently had two heavily armed, uninvited occupants occupying her living room.
Cassia threw back the duvet and stepped out of bed.
She didn't tiptoe, nor did she rush. She went into her en-suite bathroom, took a hot, efficient shower to wash away the lingering fatigue of the previous day, and dressed in a comfortable pair of dark grey slacks and a crisp, oversized white button-down shirt.
She towel-dried her auburn hair, leaving it to fall in damp, natural waves down her back, and walked out into her kitchen.
The apartment was silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator.
Cassia walked over to her espresso machine, a high-end stainless-steel appliance that was one of her very few luxuries and began grinding the beans. The bitter aroma of dark roast coffee immediately bloomed in the air.
As the machine whirred to life, she finally turned her head to assess the situation in her living room.
Zoran Valente was awake. He was sitting in the austere armchair near the window, his large frame perfectly still, his dark eyes tracking her every movement.
He looked like a man who hadn't slept a single minute, a sentinel carved from stone, his suit jacket discarded but his posture radiating an ever-present, coiled readiness.
On the couch, Dante was still asleep. His breathing was deep and far more even than it had been the night before. His face, sharply aristocratic even in the grey morning light, was turned toward the back cushions.
Cassia poured two shots of espresso into a mug, added a splash of hot water, and picked it up. She walked around the kitchen island, leaning her hip against the cool marble counter as she took her first sip, her pale blue eyes resting on Zoran.
"Did he sleep?" Cassia asked, her voice low enough not to wake the man on the couch but carrying a strictly professional cadence. "Or was he awake in pain all night?"
Zoran kept his voice equally low. "He slept. He stopped thrashing around three in the morning. Hasn't moved much since."
Cassia nodded once, taking another sip of her coffee. "Good. The sutures need the immobility to set."
Right on cue, a low, ragged groan broke the silence of the apartment.
On the couch, Dante began to stir. His brow furrowed in his sleep, and as his brain clawed its way back to consciousness, the agonizing reality of his body reasserted itself.
He tried to shift his weight, instinctively attempting to roll onto his uninjured side, and immediately let out a hiss of breath as the torn muscles in his torso screamed in protest.
Cassia set her coffee mug down on the counter with a soft clink. The moment she moved, the weary, fiercely independent woman vanished, and the trauma surgeon stepped seamlessly into her place.
She crossed the living room in three long, purposeful strides.
"Hold on, don't move," Cassia ordered, her tone brooking no argument.
Dante’s eyes snapped open. The icy, pale green irises were instantly alert, scanning the unfamiliar ceiling, the modern light fixtures, and finally landing on the woman standing over him.
For a fraction of a second, the raw, unfiltered pain was visible in his expression, but he quickly locked it down behind a mask of rigid, disciplined control.
"I'm fine," Dante rasped, his voice thick with sleep and dehydration. He planted his palms on the cushions, attempting to push himself up into a seated position.
Cassia didn't even blink. She reached out, placing a firm, flat hand directly against his uninjured shoulder, and pushed him right back down onto the pillows.
"I didn't ask if you were fine," Cassia stated flatly. "I said don't move."
Dante stared at her, stunned by the physical correction. His jaw tightened, the muscles ticking beneath his jawline.
Cassia ignored his glare. She reached into her medical bag, which was still sitting on the coffee table, and pulled out a fresh pair of black nitrile gloves, snapping them onto her hands with practiced efficiency.
"I need to check the dressing," she informed him, already reaching for the hem of the temporary blanket Zoran had draped over him.
Without waiting for permission, she pulled the blanket back.
She carefully lifted the edge of the thick white bandages wrapped around his midsection.
Dante tensed instinctively, his abdominal muscles clenching hard, but Cassia’s touch was clinical.
Her long, elegant fingers moved with a deft, feather-light precision, pressing gently around the perimeter of the wound site to check for heat, swelling, or active seepage.
"The bleeding has stopped," Cassia muttered, more to herself than to him.
She leaned down, checking his pupils, then pressed two fingers against the pulse point at his wrist, staring at the clock on the wall to count the beats.
"Heart rate is elevated, but that's the pain. No fever. The sutures are holding."
She let go of his wrist and stripped the gloves off, tossing them into the small waste bin near the table. She reached into her bag again, producing a small blister pack, and popped out a single white oval pill.
She grabbed a glass of water from the table and held both out to him.
"Take this," Cassia said.
Dante looked at the pill in her hand, his eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. He remembered the argument from the night before, the sedatives he had flatly refused to swallow. "I told you last night—"
"It is not a sedative," Cassia interrupted, her voice carrying the exasperated patience of a woman forced to explain the obvious to a stubborn child.
"It's an NSAID compounded with a moderate opiate. It will not put you to sleep. It will just stop your chest from feeling like it’s currently on fire, because today is going to hurt significantly more than yesterday did as the localized swelling peaks. Take it."
Dante studied her face. There was no deception there, no hidden agenda, only a mildly irritating competence. He took the pill from her palm, his fingers brushing briefly against hers, and swallowed it down with the water.
"Thank you," Dante said, his voice clipped.
Cassia took the glass back. "You still have a few hours before you can safely be moved without risking a tear. So, try to make yourself comfortable in the meantime. Just don't stretch."
She turned away, dismissing him, and began to walk back toward the kitchen.
"Excuse me," Zoran’s deep voice stopped her. The large man was standing up from the armchair, rolling his broad shoulders. "Is there a place where I can wash up?"
Cassia paused, gesturing with her hand toward a door down the short hallway. "The guest bathroom is right there. There are clean towels in the cabinet beneath the sink. Feel free to use whatever you need."
"Much appreciated," Zoran said, offering a curt nod before disappearing down the hall.
With her medical duties concluded, Cassia returned to her own life.
She walked back into the kitchen, picked up her espresso, and pulled one of the tall wooden stools out from beneath the kitchen island.
She opened her laptop, the screen illuminating her face, and pulled a thick stack of manila folders from her work tote.
She clicked a pen and immediately began writing, her eyes scanning the complex medical jargon on the charts, tuning out the fact that the living room of her apartment had become a safe house.
On the couch, Dante slowly, agonizingly, managed to prop himself up against the armrest, placing a cushion behind his lower back for support. The painkiller hadn't kicked in yet, and every breath was a reminder of his own mortality.
The bathroom door opened, and Zoran walked out, his face and hair damp from the sink. He crossed the room, pulling a chair closer to the couch, and sat down.
"How bad is it?" Zoran murmured, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into the low, hushed cadence of their world.
"I'll live," Dante replied quietly keeping his voice equally low. "What about the streets?"
"I've been checking my burner," Zoran whispered, leaning in close. "Word is already out. Someone tipped off the hit. It was too precise. They knew which intersection we were taking from the port. It was either one of the officials we just met with or someone inside our own security detail."
Dante’s pale green eyes went dead, the temperature in his gaze dropping to zero. "If it was an internal leak, I want them found by tonight. I want names, Zoran. And I want cars brought to the alley behind this building by noon. We can't stay here."
"I've already sent the encrypted message to Marco. The cars will be here," Zoran assured him. He paused, looking around the pristine, minimalist apartment. "We were lucky she was walking by when she was, Dante. Another five minutes and you would have bled out on the pavement."
"I know," Dante murmured.
But as he said it, Dante’s eyes drifted away from Zoran. He looked across the room, past the modern furniture, to the woman sitting at the kitchen island.
Cassia was writing diligently, her brow furrowed in concentration as she reviewed a patient’s history.