Chapter 4 - The Stitch and the Scar
The medical kit in the east wing bathroom was designed for skinned knees and paper cuts, not bullet grazes and knife wounds.
Clara had dragged Dante—with a superhuman burst of adrenaline and several choice prayers—down the corridor, across the threshold of her sitting room, and onto her narrow velvet sofa.
Now, her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, her hands were stained with coppery blood, and a pair of small, sharp sewing scissors sat in a bowl of boiling water on the hot plate she kept in her sitting room for tea.
“This is going to hurt,” Clara said.
Dante didn't answer. He was lying flat on his back, his head propped on a throw pillow, his eyes shut tight. He was conscious—she could see the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest—but he had retreated behind a wall of absolute, stubborn silence.
The bullet had grazed his left shoulder, tearing through muscle and skin before exiting cleanly, leaving a jagged, bleeding furrow. There were also two deep knife slashes across his ribs—remnants of whatever war had been fought tonight in the alleys of the city.
“Mrs. Higgins—” Clara began as she picked up a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.
“If you wake her, I’ll fire you before you can blink,” Dante muttered through gritted teeth, his eyes still closed.
“You can’t fire me. I have an ironclad NDA and a mother in dialysis who needs ten grand a month,” Clara snapped back, dabbing the antiseptic directly into the open wound.
Dante didn't flinch. Not a muscle in his face moved, though a thin sheen of cold sweat broke out across his forehead. “You have a sharp mouth for a nursery maid.”
“I have a functional brain for a human being. Hold still.”
She picked up the curved needle and thread she had salvaged from her sewing kit, sterilizing the metal in the flame of a small candle she had lit to keep the room warm.
Dante opened his eyes then. They settled on her face with a heavy, piercing intensity. He watched every micro-movement—the way her lower lip was caught between her teeth, the steady concentration in her eyes, the complete lack of fear or servility.
“Why didn't you run?” he asked quietly.
“Run where? It’s three in the morning, raining sideways, and your estate is surrounded by armed guards who look like they eat small animals for breakfast,” Clara said dryly, threading the needle. “Besides, the kids would notice if their father died in the hallway. It disrupts the routine.”
A low, gravelly sound rumbled in Dante’s chest. It took Clara a moment to realize he was laughing.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” he murmured.
“I know you’re a man who needs stitches and a tetanus shot,” Clara replied, lowering the needle toward his shoulder. “Bite down on something if you’re going to scream.”
“I don’t scream.”
“Everyone screams when you pull thread through raw muscle, Mr. Calveti. You’re not made of titanium.”
She pressed the needle through the skin.
Dante’s body went rigid as a board. His fingers gripped the edge of the velvet sofa so hard the fabric ripped beneath his knuckles. A low, ragged hiss escaped between his clenched teeth, but he didn't make a sound.
Clara worked with steady, rhythmic precision. Her mother had taught her how to stitch quilt patches when she was six; the motion was the same, only the material was human skin.
“Done,” she whispered after what felt like hours, tying off the black thread with a small, neat knot and snipping the tail with her scissors.
She applied a thick layer of antibiotic ointment and covered the ragged line with sterile gauze and medical tape.
When she finished, she sank back onto her heels on the floor, wiping her brow with the back of her wrist, leaving a smudge of dirt and dried blood across her forehead.
Dante lay staring at the ceiling, his breathing finally beginning to slow down to a normal, deep cadence.
“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked, his voice softer now, stripped of its initial venom.
“My uncle was a mechanic. He used to stitch himself up in the garage rather than pay hospital bills,” Clara lied smoothly. She wasn't about to tell him about the ER waiting rooms where she had spent her teenage years while her mother fought for breath.
Dante turned his head slowly, his gray eyes resting on her face. “You’re hiding something, Clara Mitchell.”
“Everyone in this house is hiding something, Mr. Calveti. Mine just happens to be a sewing kit.”
He stared at her for a long, quiet moment. The storm outside had begun to fade, the heavy rain turning into a steady, rhythmic drizzle against the glass.
“Go to bed,” Dante said, closing his eyes again. “And if anyone asks about the blood in the rotunda tomorrow morning, tell them a vase broke.”
“What about the blood on my carpet?”
“Send the bill to my accountant,” he said evenly. “He’s used to cleaning up after me.”
Clara stood up, her legs stiff and aching. She looked down at the dark, powerful man lying on her modest sofa—a man who ruled Chicago’s underworld with an iron fist, yet looked remarkably fragile under the harsh light of a desk lamp.
“Mr. Calveti?” she asked softly.
He didn't open his eyes. “What?”
“Your children miss you.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the iron gates at the perimeter. For a second, Clara thought he hadn't heard her, or that he would order her out of the room.
May you like
Then, very quietly, Dante spoke without opening his eyes.
“They’re safer hating me.”
