Dominic knew that Lorenzo didn't like having anyone around while he treated his wounds, so he signaled for the other injured men and women to step outside with him. After leaving the cabin, he closed the door behind him, and the room fell quiet.
"You can start," Lorenzo said coldly as he sat back down.
Doctor Santino's eyes widened the moment he saw the wound. A bullet was lodged in Lorenzo's abdomen, and blood was soaking through, thick and dark—the injury far worse than he had imagined.
If this were anyone else, the doctor thought in horror, they would have already lost consciousness from the blood loss.
Doctor Santino didn't even dare to breathe too loudly. He quickly set out his tools—forceps, gauze, antiseptic, and sutures—then took a seat beside him.
With trembling hands, he disinfected the area around the bullet wound, carefully extracted the lodged bullet with the forceps, and began stitching the deep gash closed.
Twenty minutes later, the doctor finally finished. His forehead was drenched in sweat, his gloves stained with blood. Lorenzo's lips had gone pale from blood loss, though the black mask he still wore shadowed most of his face.
When the last suture was done, Lorenzo stood with slow, controlled movements, his tone cold and precise.
"The things you used to treat me are soaked in my blood," he said, his green eyes sharp as a blade. "Destroy them—just like you always do. You remember what happens if you don't… right?"
Doctor Santino swallowed hard and nodded quickly, his hands clutching the bloodstained medical equipment.
Doctor Santino immediately stood and bowed his head in acknowledgment, his hands still trembling from the pressure of treating him. Lorenzo didn't bother putting his shirt back on—he simply picked it up, slipped into his black leather jacket, and zipped it to his neck. The faint scent of blood still clung to him.
When he opened the cabin door, a dozen wounded boys and girls from his mafia family froze. Their eyes were filled with worry and silent admiration. Lorenzo's cold green gaze swept over them briefly before he spoke, his tone steady and commanding.
"Go and get treated. Make sure every trace of blood here is cleaned. If you can't manage it, call the cleaning crew in charge of the jet once we land in New York," he said, his voice carrying no warmth.
Then he turned and walked out, his steps slow and composed, the hum of the jet engines echoing behind him.
As his figure disappeared down the corridor, the younger members exchanged glances. Despite the fear in their eyes, what they felt most was awe. Their boss could be drenched in blood, stitched and pale, yet not a single sound of pain escaped him. Compared to that kind of strength, their own suffering suddenly felt small—and shame quietly settled in their hearts.
Dominic's gaze darkened as he noticed Lorenzo slumped in the front seat of the private jet, his usually sharp eyes hazy from blood loss. Despite his condition, Lorenzo sat rigidly, refusing to move toward the medical cabin.
Anxiety flickered across Dominic's face. Earlier, he hadn't realized the extent of Lorenzo's injury—his black shirt had hidden the spreading stain. But now, the dark fabric was soaked through with blood, the metallic scent heavy in the confined space.
"Damn it, Enzo," Dominic muttered under his breath. Without hesitation, he stood and pulled Lorenzo to his feet, ignoring the cold, warning look that flashed in those green eyes.
When they reached the medical cabin, Doctor Santino was still tending to several wounded men. Dominic's deep voice cut through the low hum of the engine.
"Doctor Santino, check the boss—he's hurt."
At once, the others waiting in line stepped aside, making room. The men lowered their heads in respect as Dominic guided Lorenzo forward.
Lorenzo despised appearing weak before his subordinates, but his strength was slipping fast. Unable to resist Dominic's grip, he allowed himself to be led to the examination table, his jaw clenched and eyes cold with suppressed irritation.
After helping Lorenzo sit on the bed, Dominic stepped back, allowing Doctor Santino to approach. The doctor's eyes flickered briefly with unease. Even though Lorenzo was clearly injured, not a single groan escaped his lips. His face remained calm—cold, almost detached.
Santino had seen this too many times before. It was always Dominic who dragged Lorenzo in for treatment, while the man himself remained utterly indifferent, as though pain were something that belonged to other people. If I didn't know he had congenital insensitivity to pain, the doctor thought grimly, I'd think he was some kind of monster.
Lorenzo stood and began unbuttoning his blood-soaked black shirt, stripping it off without hesitation. His pale skin was streaked with crimson, but his expression didn't change. When Dominic and the other injured men left the room, closing the door behind them, the cabin fell silent.
"You can start," Lorenzo said coldly as he sat back down.
When Doctor Santino's eyes fell on the wound in his abdomen, his breath caught. The gash was deep, the blood still seeping steadily. This amount of bleeding… anyone else would be writhing in agony—or already unconscious. But Lorenzo merely sat there, his gaze unreadable, as though pain was nothing more than a distant concept.
Doctor Santino's eyes widened the moment he saw the wound. Blood soaked through Lorenzo's abdomen, thick and dark, the injury far worse than he had imagined. If this were anyone else, the doctor thought in horror, they'd be screaming… or already unconscious.
But Lorenzo just sat there in silence, his expression cold and unflinching, as if pain itself dared not touch him. The room felt colder under his icy gaze. Santino didn't even dare to breathe too loudly. He simply knelt beside him, hands trembling slightly as he disinfected and stitched the deep gash. The faint scent of iron filled the cabin, mixing with the low hum of the jet's engines.
Twenty minutes later, the doctor finally finished. His forehead was drenched in sweat, his gloves stained crimson. Lorenzo's lips had gone pale from blood loss, though the silver mask he still wore shadowed most of his face. When the last suture was done, Lorenzo stood with slow, controlled movements, his tone cold and precise.
"The things you used to treat me are soaked in my blood," he said, his green eyes sharp as a blade. "Destroy them—just like you always do. You remember what happens if you don't… right?"
Santino swallowed hard and nodded quickly, his hands clutching the bloodied instruments.