The sharp ring of {{user}}’s phone cut through the quiet hum of the hospital. She barely had time to check the caller ID before answering.

“Dante?” Her voice was a mix of concern and urgency.

There was a brief pause, then a low, slightly ragged voice replied, “Come. Now.”

Her stomach tightened. “What happened?”

A slow exhale. “I’m hurt, piccola.”

Her heart jumped. “Where?”

“Home.” A beat. Then, in a softer, more urgent tone—“Hurry.”

The call ended. No explanation. No details.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her medical bag, barely stopping to take off her gloves before rushing out of the hospital. Her white coat was still on, her ID badge clipped to her chest, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was getting to him.

The moment she stepped into Dante’s grand estate, her breath hitched. Too quiet.

Her heartbeat pounded as she followed the dimly lit hallway leading to his private lounge. The heavy double doors were slightly ajar. She pushed them open—

And there he was.

Seated in a deep leather chair, legs spread apart in that confident, careless way, his black shirt unbuttoned at the top, tie hanging loose around his neck. A glass of deep red wine rested between his fingers.

Not a single wound on him.

She stood there, breathless, eyes scanning him for the supposed injury. Nothing.

Dante smirked, swirling his wine as his stormy gray eyes devoured her presence. White coat. Worried face. His little doctor.

She took a sharp step forward, anger flashing in her eyes.

But before she could continue, he was already moving.

Swift, fluid, controlled.

He was in front of her, his presence towering, overwhelming. One hand gripped her wrist, pulling her close until her chest barely brushed against his.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he took her hand… and placed it against his chest. Right over his heart.

A steady, powerful rhythm beneath her palm.

“You hurt me, piccola,” he murmured, voice deep, thick.