The peace didn't last long. Two hours later, the heavy doors of the mansion burst open. Leo was in the library, trying to wrap his head around his new life, when Dante appeared. His white shirt was splattered with fresh, crimson blood.
"Get your bag, Leo. Now!" Dante commanded.
Leo's medical instincts took over. He grabbed the emergency kit Dante had provided and followed him down to a hidden basement level. On a stainless steel table lay a young man, barely twenty years old, clutching a stomach wound.
"This is Marco. He's my cousin," Dante said, his face a mask of cold fury. "Fix him. If he dies, I'll find your father and finish what I started."
Leo didn't flinch. He snapped on his gloves, his eyes turning sharp and professional. "Move back, Dante. You're in my way."
For a second, the Mafia Boss looked surprised that Leo was giving him orders. But he stepped back, watching as Leo worked. Leo's hands were steady as he cut away the bloody clothes and began to stop the bleeding. The room was silent except for the clinking of metal instruments and Marco's ragged breathing.
For an hour, Leo forgot he was a prisoner. He was a surgeon. He stitched the artery, cleaned the wound, and stabilized the boy. When he finally stepped back, sweating and exhausted, Marco was breathing steadily.
Leo turned to Dante, who had been standing in the shadows the whole time. "He'll live. But he needs real medicine. Antibiotics and rest."
Dante walked over, looking at the neat stitches Leo had placed. He looked at Leo, not with hunger this time, but with something like respect. He took a clean cloth and reached out, gently wiping a smudge of blood off Leo's forehead.
"You're good, Doctor," Dante murmured. "I made a wise investment."
"I'm not an investment," Leo snapped, pulling away from the touch. "I'm a human being."
"In this house, you are whatever I say you are," Dante replied, the warmth vanishing instantly. "Go wash up. We have dinner in twenty minutes. Don't be late."