Chapter 5 First Cut

Mia

I didn't sleep all night. I told myself it wasn't fear. At least not entirely. Blackthorn House was too quiet. So quiet that even the water sounds in the heating pipes seemed like someone walking behind the walls. At 3 AM, I sat by the window, turning through the sketchbook page by page. The line drawings from five years ago were still there, birds, roses, broken feathers. Each page was like someone had preserved wounds for me.

Dante didn't appear again. But his people were outside the door. He didn't need to stand here to block all my paths. At dawn, Elena brought coffee and a set of clean clothes. Black sweater, jeans, the size was just right. She set down the tray and said softly: "Mr. Moretti is waiting for you in the glass room."

"Let him wait," I said.

Elena glanced at me, didn't try to persuade, just placed a phone next to the tray. The screen showed the hospital's real-time monitoring page. My mother's name, room number, heart rate, blood pressure. And a line showing payment status: Covered by Blackthorn Holdings. That line stayed lit on the screen for a long time.

Then I changed clothes and went downstairs. The glass room was in the back courtyard. Winter roses had been cut down to just black thorns, rainwater hanging on the thorn tips, blindingly bright. Dante sat at the end of the long table, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a document placed on his left side, my old tattoo case on his right side.

My things.

I walked over, my hand first pressing on the tattoo case clasp, my voice cold and hard: "You went through my bag?"

Dante glanced at my hand. "I had people check for dangerous items."

"My needle machine is dangerous to you?"

He finally looked up, his gaze moving from the case to my face: "You're more dangerous to me."

I was blocked by him for a moment. He said it too calmly, excessively calm. The next second, that document was pushed in front of me, the paper edge stopping at my fingertips.

Dante pressed the document edge with his knuckles. "Three months."

I didn't touch the document, just pressed my hand on the table edge.

He flipped open the first page for me, his knuckles pressing on the top clause: "Your mother's treatment period. Within three months, expenses covered by Blackthorn, you stay in New York, live here, don't see Nico alone, don't leave my people's sight."

I laughed out loud, but the laughter didn't reach my eyes at all. "You're buying me?"

"I'm giving you a way to live."

"I don't need it." I pushed that page back.

Dante's gaze fell on the phone screen, which still showed my mother's monitoring page. "Your mother needs it."

The back of my neck tightened. He knew exactly where to squeeze. Dante wasn't the type of man who would beat around the bush to coax people. He was even too lazy to hide the knife. He put the knife on the table, then calmly told you that you'd die if you didn't grip it. I grabbed the document and flipped to the last page. The signature line was blank.

"I won't sign." I flipped the signature page to the end, stopping at the blank field.

Dante leaned back in his chair, didn't even move his eyebrows. "Fine."

I looked up.

He turned the phone half an inch toward me, the monitoring curve still jumping steadily. "Then you can call the hospital now and tell them to stop the transfer and surgery."

The paper in my hand was crumpled by me. The glass room went quiet. Outside, wind blew through the rose branches, black thorns scraping against the glass, the sound kept low but making my teeth ache. I threw the document back.

"Tell me," I said, leaning on the table edge looking at him, "what do you want me to do?"

Dante's gaze fell on the tattoo case.

"Cover an old wound."

I frowned: "You can't find a tattoo artist?"

His gaze fell on my hand, cold without any room for negotiation. "I can find one, but I only want you."

After Dante finished speaking, his knuckles tapped once on the chair back. I opened the tattoo case and found all the needles, pigments, gloves arranged in my usual positions. Even more organized than I would have done myself.

"Take off your shirt," I said.

Dante seemed amused by me for the first time. The next second, he looked up at me. "Are you sure you want to command me in that tone?"

"If you want a tattoo, shut up," I said.

He really shut up. The black shirt was unbuttoned by him, revealing an old wound on his shoulder and back. That wasn't an ordinary knife scar. The wound ran diagonally down from the shoulder blade, edges whitened, like it had been very deep back then and sewn very roughly. Next to the scar was an old black thorn mark, the ink very faded but still dangerous. I put on gloves and pressed my fingertip on that scar. Dante's back muscles tensed.

My fingertip stopped at the scar edge. "Does it hurt?"

He didn't even turn his shoulder. "Continue."

The second the needle machine started, memory flipped back to five years ago. Back then I also stood behind him, except I wasn't holding a needle, but a glass of red wine I had knocked over. The wine spilled on his shirt, everyone at the venue looked at me waiting for him to get angry. Dante only looked down at me once and said: "Your hand is shaking."

Same now.

My hand was shaking. Not afraid of the needle. It was because his skin was very hot, the scar was very hard, and this man wasn't born invincible. He would bleed too. He just never let people see it.

"Mia," Dante called me.

"Don't talk," I said.

He turned his head, looking at me through the mirror: "Every time you're scared, you get a little fiercer." The needle tip paused.

"I'm not afraid of you," I said.

"I know," his voice was very low, "you're afraid you need me."

The needle machine in my hand almost went crooked. A string of footsteps approached in the corridor, the rhythm already chaotic when they stopped at the door. Elena pushed in, her face pale: "Mr. Nico is here."

Dante stood without moving. I took off my gloves: "Let him in."

The glass room had an entire wall of old photos. Black and white Moretti family, docks, churches in snowy nights, several charity gala group photos deliberately placed in corners. I put on gloves while looking at Dante through the reflection. He fit here, fit this kind of cold light, dark wood, and glass that was always polished transparent. But I didn't fit. I belonged to that store with peeling walls in Philadelphia, belonged to disinfectant smell, cash, and instant coffee at 2 AM. Thinking of this, I suddenly hated him more. Because he brought my wretchedness into his world, and still demanded I keep my hands steady here.

Dante's wound was more serious than in the photos. The old scar crossed the shoulder blade, like someone had once tried to split him open from behind. When new tattoo covered it, every inch the needle traveled, his breathing would deepen by a degree. He didn't cry out in pain, didn't even frown, only looked up at me when I wiped away blood drops. That look reminded me of five years ago, at the end of the Moretti family corridor, everyone was arguing, only he seemed to already know the ending.

Dante's gaze went past me, directly pressing toward the doorway. "No."

When I pressed the stencil on his back, my finger touched a very old hard scar. That scar wasn't a knife cut, more like the depression left after a bullet grazed past. I looked up at the mirror, Dante was also looking at me. The glass wall reflected the security outside the door, and also the needle machine in my hand. I suppressed the chaos in my chest and asked if he wanted local anesthesia. He said no. His voice was so low it seemed like this wasn't a cover-up, but a punishment he had long accepted.

After the needle machine started again, everyone in the room went quiet. Security stood outside the door, lawyers sat in corners with documents, only I could get close to Dante's skin. This distance made me very uncomfortable. I should have used it to force him to reveal things about my father, but when blood drops emerged from the black line edges, I still pressed gauze on them first. Professional habits can't save people, but they can temporarily keep you from thinking about who you're saving.

After the first line went down, Dante's shoulders and back tensed. I saw that when he endured pain his jaw would tighten, completely different from Nico. When Nico hurt he would first check if others were watching, Dante wouldn't. When it hurt badly, his jaw would tighten, but his shoulders wouldn't dodge. I didn't want to be curious about this kind of person, but every time the needle tip brushed past old scars, I felt like I was touching a past no one was willing to explain clearly.

I turned to look at him: "You just said the door was open."

He slowly buttoned his shirt, the wound and half-finished black rose covered by fabric.

"I said the door was open," he looked at me, "didn't say you could see whoever."

My phone lit up just then. Nico's name jumped on the screen. Below the incoming call was also a new text message. Mia, don't trust him. What he gives you will only make you hate him more.