Chapter 5 - The Scars We Hide
"Mr. Moretti, please, it was an accident," I stammered, shielding both children behind my skirts. "Lily ran after the cat, and Leo was only trying to stop her—"
"I said get out!" Dominic roared.
The sheer volume of his voice echoed through the gallery like a gunshot. Lily burst into terrified wails, burying her face into my hip. Leo began to shake uncontrollably.
I scooped Lily into my arms with my left hand and took Leo’s trembling hand with my right. I didn't say another word. I guided them past Dominic, careful not to brush against his soaked coat. As I passed him, I caught the smell of gunpowder mixed with the metallic scent of fresh blood.
My eyes involuntarily dropped to his left side. Beneath his partially open trench coat, a dark crimson stain was rapidly blooming across the fabric of his dress shirt.
He was bleeding. Badly.
My instinct as a mother and a former nursing student collided with my fear. But the look in his eyes warned me that if I spoke right now, he would destroy whatever was in front of him. I rushed the children upstairs to Leo's bedroom, spent half an hour calming Lily down until she fell asleep from exhaustion, and tucked Leo in with two extra blankets.
"He's going to send you away, isn't he?" Leo asked quietly from his bed, tears tracks dry on his cheeks.
"No, Leo. I'm not going anywhere," I lied, trying to smile through the knot in my stomach. "Sleep now."
Once both children were sound asleep, I couldn't stop the image of the bloodstain on Dominic's side from replaying in my mind. He hadn't called for an ambulance. Men like Dominic Moretti never called 911—doing so meant police reports, questions, and blood in the water for his rivals.
I walked down to the kitchen, grabbed the heavy industrial first-aid kit from the pantry, boiled a kettle of water, and collected clean towels.
I was probably walking straight into my own termination—or worse. But I couldn't let a man bleed to death under the same roof as my daughter.
I walked back to the locked wing. The door was still open.
Dominic was sitting on a low velvet armchair beneath the portrait of his wife. His trench coat lay discarded on the floor, soaked in red. His shirt was torn open, revealing a jagged, ugly gash along his ribs—a shallow bullet graze or the scrape of a jagged blade. He was attempting to pour antiseptic over the wound with one shaking hand, his teeth clenched in agony.
He heard my footsteps and reached instantly for the black handgun resting on the side table.
"It's just me," I said quickly, raising my free hand while holding the first-aid kit in the other. "It's Isabella."
His hand hovered over the gun for a second before dropping weakly back into his lap. He glared at me through sweat-soaked hair. "I told you to leave."
"You're going to get sepsis if you don't clean that properly," I said, my voice surprisingly steady as my adrenaline kicked in. "And Leo needs a father alive more than he needs a clean gallery."
Dominic's eyes flared with anger, but the blood loss made him sway slightly. "You have a sharp tongue for a maid, Isabella."
"I was two semesters away from finishing nursing school before my husband took everything and ran," I replied evenly, setting the basin of warm water and the medical kit on the table beside him. "Sit back. Let me do this."
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For five long seconds, Dominic Moretti, the terror of Boston, stared at me. Then, with a low groan of defeat, he leaned his head back against the velvet cushion and closed his eyes.
***
