Chapter Five – Isabella Romano
The night swallowed London whole, leaving its streets slick with rain and glistening beneath fractured pools of streetlamp light. By the time Isabella Romano closed the clinic for the day, her body felt carved from stone, each step along the pavement heavy and deliberate. Her shoes slapped against the wet ground, shoulders hunched beneath the weak shield of her umbrella.
The storm had passed, but the air carried a sharp, damp chill. She welcomed it. Isabella liked the silence that followed rain. It reminded her of the pause after a long cry—the fragile calm, the quiet that didn't last but felt like mercy in the moment.
When she reached her building, a familiar sound greeted her even before she slipped the key into the lock. Six's barks carried through the thin walls, sharp and eager, as if the dog had already scented her footsteps from down the block.
"I'm here," Isabella murmured as she pushed open the door.
Six bounded forward instantly, tail wagging with the force of a whip, nails clicking against the wooden floor. His golden coat still carried the faint smell of shampoo from the bath she had given him last week. She bent down, rubbing behind his ears until his body leaned all of its weight against her.
"You're the best part of my day," she whispered, abandoning her bag by the door.
The dog followed at her heel as she moved into the kitchen. After filling his bowl, she studied the contents of her fridge with resigned detachment: half a carton of eggs, a cluster of vegetables beginning to wilt, a container of leftover rice. Not much, but enough. She chose risotto alla milanese—one dish she could manage without burning the pan.
As the rice simmered, the kitchen filled with the buttery aroma of saffron and garlic. Six sat obediently by the counter, tilting his head as though sheer patience might earn him a taste.
"Not for you," Isabella teased, though she saved a scrap of chicken to slip into his bowl later.
The knock came unexpectedly. Isabella startled, her spoon clattering against the pot.
Only one person knocked that way—bright, sharp, impatient.
Chiara.
She swept inside without waiting for an invitation, perfume and laughter arriving before her coat landed unceremoniously on the couch.
"Darling, you look half-dead." Her gaze flicked toward the stove, and her brows shot up in mock amazement. "And your apartment smells divine. Actual cooking? Have the heavens opened? Isabella Romano cooking a proper meal?"
Isabella rolled her eyes but set out a second plate all the same. "It's risotto. Don't act like I don't feed myself."
"Barely." Chiara was already digging into the fridge for wine. "You live on coffee, biscuits, and your endless anxiety. One day I'll stage an intervention."
She filled the apartment with her restless energy, every word and gesture spilling into the quiet spaces Isabella usually guarded for herself. Chiara had always been this way—outspoken, adventurous, unafraid of attention. She could walk into a room of strangers and leave with five new friends, while Isabella preferred silence, predictability, control.
By the time they settled onto the couch with their food, Chiara was already pressing. "So. Yesterday. Those men. That man. Tell me you noticed."
"Noticed what?" Isabella kept her tone even, but tension slipped into her shoulders.
"The way he carried himself. He didn't look like he belonged here—not in London, not in that clinic. He had presence. Like a character from some old crime film."
Isabella's mind betrayed her, returning to the memory of the stranger on her table. Silent as she stitched him up. The weight of his gaze. The way the others deferred to him—called him boss. Her fingers flexed unconsciously, as though they still remembered the heat of his blood through the gloves.
"He was a patient," she said firmly. "Nothing more."
Chiara smirked. "You're impossible. A storm walks into your clinic bleeding, and you act like it's routine."
"It is routine," Isabella replied, though even she heard the hollowness of her own words.
---
Dinner dwindled into crumbs. Just as Isabella began clearing plates, her phone buzzed on the counter.
Domenico.
She almost let it go to voicemail. Her younger brother had a habit of calling at inconvenient times, his voice often carrying more complaints than gratitude. But guilt pulled her hand toward the phone.
"It's late, Dom," she answered.
"Isa," his voice rushed through the line, tinged with fatigue and excitement. "You won't believe it. I finally met him today."
"Met who?"
"The CEO. My boss. Salvatore Moretti." Domenico said the name like it was meant to be recognized, like he had just uttered the name of a legend.
To Isabella, it was only another name in a city overrun with them. She stirred absently at her empty cup. "And?"
"A guest spilled food, tried to blame me, made a whole scene. He stepped in. Handled it himself. But, Isa…" Domenico's voice dropped. "He's not like anyone I've ever seen. The way he looked at me—it was like he could see right through me."
"You're overthinking," Isabella replied, her exhaustion pressing harder against her skull. "He's just a man. Powerful maybe, but still a man."
"Maybe." Domenico didn't sound convinced. After a pause, his tone softened. "Listen, I need your help. Mamma's house—it's too far. East Sussex to London every day is killing me. The train, the shifts… I can't keep it up. Let me stay with you. Just for a while. Please."
Isabella's gaze moved around her apartment. One room. One bed. A couch that barely accommodated Chiara when she stayed over. But Domenico's desperation weighed heavier than her inconvenience.
"We'll figure something out," she said quietly.
His relief was immediate. "Grazie, Isa. Really."
---
When she hung up, Chiara arched a brow. "Your brother again? What does he want this time?"
"To move in, apparently."
Chiara laughed. "Perfect. Just what this shoebox needs. Another Romano."
"Don't start."
But Chiara never stopped. She sipped her wine, eyes glinting with amusement. "You know what I think? You hide in this apartment, in that clinic, in Mamma's phone calls. Always working, always worrying, never living. When was the last time you had fun?"
"Fun?" Isabella asked flatly.
"Yes. Fun. Dancing. Drinking. Flirting. Breathing. Not moping over that parasite Gallo."
Isabella's jaw tightened at the name. "I'm not moping."
"Then why haven't you dated since? Don't tell me it's because you're busy. You're avoiding life, Isa. And I won't allow it."
"You can't force me."
"Watch me." Chiara's grin was wicked.
---
The hours slipped by in laughter, mock arguments, and the kind of stories only Chiara could tell. She described a man she'd met at a club the week before, embellishing every detail—his poet's eyes, his devil's charm. Isabella teased her mercilessly, reminding her of her long list of "poets" and "devils" who had all vanished after two weeks.
"You're deflecting," Chiara accused. "But fine. If you won't share your heart, I'll share enough stories for both of us."
Eventually, fatigue dragged them toward sleep. Rain returned, tapping softly against the window. Six curled at the foot of the bed, his steady breathing a lullaby of its own.
Lying in the dark, Isabella's thoughts betrayed her one last time. She remembered not the blood, not the wound, but the silence of the man in her clinic. The way his gaze lingered on her as though he meant to memorize her face.
She told herself again he was nothing more than a patient.