Chapter 6 - Blood on the TableThe private clinic was a masterpiece of modern veterinary medicine—gleaming stainless steel, advanced diagnostic equipment, and sterile white lights. For the first time in eight months, Isabella felt a spark of her old self ignite in her chest. Her fingers traced the edge of the surgical table, a familiar, comforting rhythm returning to her pulse.
Her first patient arrived that very afternoon.
The heavy steel doors burst open, and two burly guards carried in a massive, trembling Cane Corso with a deep, jagged gash along its flank and a shattered hind leg. The dog was foaming at the mouth, growling in agonizing pain.
"He got caught in a snare out near the perimeter fence," one of the guards said, sweating profusely. "He's lost a lot of blood, Boss."
Moretti stood in the corner of the room, watching quietly, his arms crossed over his chest.
Isabella didn't hesitate. Months of hiding evaporated, replaced instantly by the instinctual training of a professional.
"Get him on the table! Now!" she commanded, her voice ringing with absolute authority.
The guards blinked, momentarily shocked by the sudden transformation of the quiet girl into a commanding surgeon, but they scrambled to obey.
"Muzzle him gently so he doesn't bite his own tongue off," Isabella ordered, snapping on sterile latex gloves. "I need a local anesthetic, a trauma kit, and IV fluids immediately. Lorenzo, hand me that clamp on the tray!"
Moretti didn't flinch. Without a word, he reached out, picked up the surgical clamp, and handed it directly to her gloved fingers. Their skin brushed for a fraction of a second—his warm, hers cool.
For the next two hours, the room fell silent save for the steady beep of the heart monitor and the crisp snip of surgical scissors. Isabella moved with lethal precision, cleaning the wound, removing torn tissue, setting the shattered bone with pins, and stitching the heavy muscle back together.
When she finally tied off the last suture and removed her bloody gloves, her forehead was slick with sweat, but her eyes were shining with triumph.
"He's going to make it," she breathed, leaning against the edge of the table. "He'll need rest and antibiotics, but the leg will heal."
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The guards let out collective sighs of relief. But Lorenzo Moretti was looking at her with a gaze so intense, so burning with raw admiration, that it made her breath hitch.
"Magnificent," Moretti murmured, stepping forward. He reached out and, with surprising gentleness, wiped a stray smudge of blood from her cheek with his thumb. "I told you, Isabella. You were never meant to hide in the shadows."
