Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

His number was still in her contacts. She could call him right now. Could hear his voice. Could tell him that she’d been thinking about him, that she wondered if he was okay, that she wanted to hear that he’d survived Dimitri’s attack.

Isabella reached over and picked up the phone. Unlocked it. Found his contact information.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

She could do this. Could make the call. Could hear his voice telling her whatever lies or truths he would tell her.

But then what? Then he would know she was thinking about him. That she was still caught, still unable to move forward, still trapped in whatever this was between them.

No. Don’t call him. Let him go. Get your head straight.

She set the phone back on the nightstand and turned away from it, pulling the covers up over herself.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, pushing away the thought of Dante, pushing away the wondering if he was alive, pushing away everything that wasn’t right in front of her.

Tomorrow, she would be stronger. Tomorrow, the medication would have had more time to work. Tomorrow, these thoughts about Dante would fade back into the background where they belonged.

Tomorrow, she would remember that she was a Russo. That she had responsibilities. That loving Dante was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

She lay in the darkness and held onto that thought as she drifted toward sleep.

***

POV: ENZO

The address led to a small private practice in Testaccio, tucked between a vintage bookstore and a closed gelato shop that hadn’t operated in years.

Dr. Fabrizio Marelli. Physical therapist. Specializing in spinal rehabilitation.

Enzo had gotten the name from a contact in the police department who owed him a favor. One query about who was treating Dante Romano post-injury, and the name had come back within an hour.

Enzo pushed open the glass door and stepped into a waiting room that smelled like eucalyptus and linen. Two elderly patients sat in the chairs, neither of them paying him any attention.

The receptionist looked up. Young woman, professional, the kind who’d learned to make no judgments about the people who walked through that door.

”I need to speak with Dr. Marelli,” Enzo said. ”It’s urgent.”

”Do you have an appointment?”

”No. Tell him it’s about one of his patients. Dante Romano.”

The receptionist’s expression shifted fractionally. Just a flicker, but enough.

She picked up the phone, said something in a low voice, then looked back at Enzo.

”He’ll see you in a moment. Through that hallway, last door on the left.”

Dr. Fabrizio Marelli was in his sixties, silver-haired, with the kind of careful posture that came from someone who spent his days correcting other people’s spines. He was standing when Enzo entered the office, already looking tense.

”You’re Enzo Valentino,” Marelli said. It wasn’t a question.

”I am. And you’re Dr. Marelli.”

”I am.” Marelli gestured to a chair. ”What do you want to know about my patient?”

”Everything,” Enzo said, settling into the chair without being asked. ”His condition when he first came to you. His prognosis. His recovery timeline.”

Marelli was quiet for a moment, clearly calculating whether discussing a patient fell under doctor-patient confidentiality and whether the Valentino name overrode that concern.

The concern won.

”I can’t discuss his medical history without his consent,” Marelli said carefully.

”Dr. Marelli,” Enzo said, his voice staying level and reasonable. ”I’m not here to hurt him. I’m here because I’m trying to understand something that doesn’t make sense. And I think you can help me understand it. So I’m going to ask you questions, and I’m going to trust that you’ll answer them, because I don’t think you want to see what happens if you refuse.”

It wasn’t a threat, exactly. It was the kind of statement that suggested consequences without spelling them out.

Marelli’s jaw tightened. He understood perfectly what Enzo wasn’t saying.

”What do you want to know?” Marelli finally asked.

”When you were first call in to treat Dante,” Enzo began, ”what was his condition?”

Marelli moved to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. He didn’t open it, just held it like it was a life raft in dangerous water.

”Multiple gunshot wounds to the lower abdomen and legs,” Marelli said, reading from the file without opening it. ”Significant nerve damage. Muscle trauma.”

”What was the prognosis?” Enzo asked.

”Full recovery would take six to eight months minimum,” Marelli said. ”With aggressive physical therapy, he might regain partial mobility in three to four months. But complete recovery, full walking without assistance, that would be at least six months if everything went perfectly.”

”And how long has he been seeing you?”

”Approximately four weeks.”

Enzo felt something settle cold in his chest.

”Four weeks,” he repeated. ”And what’s his current status?”

Marelli finally opened the file, though it seemed like the motion cost him something.

”His progress has been... unusual,” Marelli said carefully.

”Unusual how?”

”Faster than expected,” Marelli said. ”Much faster.”

”Show me,” Enzo said.

Marelli moved to a computer on his desk and pulled up a series of images. Thermal scans. Movement assessments. Nerve conduction tests. Marelli walked him through each one, explaining the progression.

”These are from four weeks ago,” Marelli said, pointing to the first set of scans. ”You can see the significant nerve damage here, the muscle atrophy, the inflammation.”

He clicked to the next image.

”This is from two weeks ago. The inflammation has reduced notably. The nerve pathways are showing signs of regeneration.”

Another click.

”This is from last week. The regeneration has accelerated significantly. The nerve pathways are responding in ways I’ve never documented in my practice.”

Enzo leaned forward, studying the scans.

”What does that mean?” he asked.

”It means,” Marelli said slowly, ”that his body is healing at approximately five to ten times the normal rate for this type of injury.”

”Is that possible with therapy alone?”

Marelli was quiet for a long moment.

”No,” he finally said. ”It’s not.”

Enzo sat back in his chair, understanding immediately what that meant.

”What else is he receiving?” Enzo asked.