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EMILIO'S POV

Emilio held Dante's weight against his side, his arm around the older man's waist as they entered the house. The cleaner—an older, round-faced woman with tired eyes—stood at the top of the stairs, her hand over her chest.

"Dio mio," she gasped. "What happened?"

"He got shot," Emilio said flatly, helping Dante through the hall.

The woman didn't ask more. She turned quickly, guiding them toward the bedroom.

"This way. Lay him down gently." Her voice was soft but firm.

Rossi helped lower Dante onto the bed. The injured man winced but said nothing, gritting his teeth as the bloodied towel pressed against his arm. The cleaner reached for the phone on the bedside table and began dialing without needing to be told.

"I'll be downstairs, waiting for the doctor," she said and left the room quietly, shutting the door behind her.

Emilio stood by the bed, unsure. Should he stay? Leave? The way Dante had snapped at him earlier made it easy to walk out—but the bullet wound told a different story. Emilio glanced at the soaked towel on Dante's arm, his jaw clenched.

"Let's go," Rossi said from the doorway. "He'll be fine. You don't owe him anything."

"I didn't say I owe him," Emilio muttered.

"Then why are you still here?"

Emilio hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just... grateful. He didn't have to show up tonight. He didn't even wait for a signal—he just came."

Rossi narrowed his eyes. "Grateful, huh? You two look real tight all of a sudden. The way he took that bullet and the way you're hovering over him now—are you sure it's just gratitude?"

Emilio exhaled sharply, brushing a hand through his hair. "You're overthinking it. Just bring me some of my clothes from the house, alright?"

Rossi looked like he wanted to say more, but he just nodded. "Fine. I'll be back."

Emilio turned back inside. Dante's eyes were open now, watching him with that familiar, unreadable look. His face was pale, lips pressed tight from the pain.

"You're still here?" Dante asked, voice hoarse.

"Yeah."

"Go home, Emilio. I can take care of myself."

Emilio folded his arms. "It doesn't look like it."

"I don't need you hovering."

"This is just my way of saying thank you, Dante. Nothing else."

"I already have someone who takes care of me."

That one made Emilio pause. So there was someone—of course, there was. Maybe a girlfriend, maybe someone else. Still, Emilio nodded stiffly, forcing himself not to react.

"I'll go when she leaves," he said coolly.

He moved closer, reaching out to undo the buttons of Dante's shirt. The man batted his hand away with his good arm.

"I said I can do it."

But Dante's fingers fumbled, stiff with pain. Emilio reached again—gently this time. Dante didn't resist. He helped him shrug out of the shirt, trying not to focus on the blood now streaked across Dante's skin.

"You shouldn't have put your hand in and taken that bullet."

Emilio's voice was low, tight. His eyes didn't meet Dante's, but the weight of his words lingered in the quiet room.

Dante lay back on the bed, jaw clenched, sweat glistening on his brow. He shifted slightly, wincing. "I told you. It wasn't for you."

Emilio scoffed, folding the bloodied towel tighter around Dante's arm. "Right. You just dove into bullets for sport now?"

Dante didn't respond. The silence dragged, heavy with things unsaid.

The door opened again. The cleaner returned, her hands clasped in front of her, followed by the doctor—an older man in a neat suit and tired eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses.

"Where's the wound?" the doctor asked, already rolling up his sleeves and moving to the bed.

"Upper arm," Emilio answered quickly, stepping aside. He didn't leave, though. He didn't even move toward the door.

The cleaner looked at Emilio, then Dante, then the doctor. "I'll bring water and towels," she muttered, sensing the tension, and backed out quickly.

"You can wait outside," Dante told Emilio without looking at him.

"I'm fine here."

The doctor glanced between them, arching a brow but wisely said nothing. He opened his kit, pulled out gauze, antiseptic, thread, and a needle.

"This'll sting," he warned, inspecting the wound. "Bullet grazed, but it sliced through skin and muscle. You're lucky."

"Lucky," Dante muttered under his breath, glaring at the ceiling.

Emilio stepped closer again, eyes locked on the wound as the doctor cleaned it.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, quieter now.

"No," Dante lied. The twitch in his jaw said otherwise.

"You're not a good liar," Emilio said.

"You're not good at staying away," Dante replied, sharp.

But Emilio didn't flinch. "I didn't come here for you. I came because I owe you one."

"That's what this is? A favor?"

"Yes. After this, we're even."

The doctor paused mid-suture, clearly listening but still not interrupting.

Dante gave a short, humorless laugh. "Then leave. Your debt's paid."

Emilio turned to the doctor instead. "Can he move around tomorrow?"

"Depends," the doctor replied without looking up. "If he rests tonight, no infection, no fever... maybe light movement. But it's better he stays in bed. That arm needs time."

"Good," Emilio said. "I'll stay."

Dante groaned. "Are you deaf or just stubborn?"

"You're bleeding and half naked on a bed. I think you lost the right to argue."

"I already told you I have someone who takes care of me."

"Where is she, then?" Emilio challenged, suddenly sharp.

Dante's eyes met his, cold and unreadable. "She'll be here later."

Emilio gave a small nod, jaw tight. "Fine. I'll go when she comes."

The doctor finished stitching, cutting the thread, and wrapping Dante's arm with clean gauze.

"Painkillers now. Antibiotics tonight and tomorrow. You'll be sore for a few days," he said, packing up. "You need rest. Don't use that arm unless you want to rip the stitches."

Dante waved him off with his good hand.

"I'll see myself out," the doctor muttered, clearly used to stubborn patients. Emilio followed him to the door, offering a quiet "thank you."

When he returned, Dante was trying to sit up.

Emilio crossed his arms. "Didn't the doctor just say bed rest?"

"You don't have to hover like a babysitter."

"I'm not here to babysit you, Dante."

Dante leaned his head back against the pillow, watching him. "Then why are you really here?"

Emilio didn't answer immediately. He sat down on the edge of a chair by the bed, running a hand through his hair.

"I thought you'd let me die, you know," he said after a moment.

Dante blinked. "What?"

"That night, when I called. I thought you'd ignore me. Leave me to deal with Romano."

"You said we were even."

"I did."

They were quiet again. Outside, the faint hum of night traffic reached through the windows, and the house creaked like old wood under pressure.