The wound on my abdomen had reopened. I felt the pain during the competition, but I said nothing. I didn’t want to alarm Dennis or my ILM teammates. Instead, I asked the organizer’s doctor to treat it discreetly. But somehow, Bert noticed.
When did he find out?
Did he bring me to Dr. Garrett’s lab just to have me treated?
Dr. Garrett immediately recognized the severity of the situation and began preparing medication and tools. I was forced to sit on the sofa and wait. Bored, I started observing the lab around me.
Scattered files littered the desk and floor. Glass test tubes, filled with liquids of various colors, lined the edges of the table. Cabinets covered an entire wall, each holding jars with incomprehensible labels.
It wasn’t much different from the research labs of Luciano’s weapons experts.
I quickly lost interest in Garrett’s lab and let my gaze wander to the handwoven rug beneath my feet. Its interwoven patterns of light gray and deep brown drew my attention.
Then, a pair of black leather shoes entered my line of sight.
Naturally, my eyes were drawn to the new arrival.
“Does it hurt?” Bert asked, suddenly seated on the single sofa to my right.
“What?” I had been lost in thought too long and couldn’t immediately follow his question.
Bert patiently repeated himself, this time emphasizing the word “hand.”
At first, I assumed he was concerned about the wound on my abdomen, which was still bleeding. But his focus was elsewhere. I glanced at my left hand, tightly wrapped in layers of gauze. The bandages were snug, restricting even the smallest movement of my fingers.
“The doctor’s just being dramatic,” I said helplessly. “Look, I can’t even move my fingers.”
“You’re avoiding my question, Bianca.”
Bert wasn’t playing games anymore. His straightforward accusation left no room for me to deflect.
What was I supposed to say?
That the Mafia doesn’t acknowledge pain, only victory?
That confiding in others about suffering is a sign of weakness-and the princess of Luciano doesn’t embrace weakness?
I had countless ways to brush off Bert’s concern, or even ignore his question entirely.
But beneath the title of Mafia princess, I was just an ordinary girl. I felt pain. When that sharp knife pierced my body, I hurt. When the wound tore open, I hurt.
The dried blood glued the wound to my leather gloves. When they were pulled apart, the pain was like a blade carving through my bones. My hand hurt so much it was numb, trembling uncontrollably at the fingertips.
Why not scream out the pain? Wouldn’t it hurt less if I did?
But I had worn the crown of a princess so long that I had forgotten how to remove it.
“I’m used to it,” I said.
Used to the pain.
Used to hiding it.
Used to licking my wounds in solitude.
Bert frowned deeply, clearly disapproving. “No one ever gets used to pain…”
“Here it is, here it is!” Garrett interrupted, emerging from some corner with a dusty glass bottle. “This is a new drug I patented three years ago. It can accelerate wound healing and reduce pain. Don’t worry, it’s still within its effective period.”
He pulled out a tissue, carefully wiped the bottle clean, and revealed the English letters on its label.
“First-generation product?”
“Well, it is from three years ago,” Garrett said proudly. “But after three years of effort, my team and I have successfully developed second- and third-generation versions.
“Though the second generation hasn’t passed clinical trials yet, the third generation is the most effective. Unfortunately, it’s too expensive for mass production…”
As he spoke, Garrett swiftly cut away the bandages and cleaned the wound.
“Thankfully, it didn’t tear too badly,” he said with relief.
He finished treating the wound quickly and then began rattling off the usual instructions-“Don’t get it wet,” “Avoid strenuous activity”-which I obediently agreed to.
Perhaps I agreed too quickly, as Bert shot me a complicated look.
Just when I thought he might mock me, he withdrew his gaze coldly.
“Keep working hard. We’re leaving,” Bert said as he stood.
“Wait, the coffee just arrived downstairs. Won’t you try some?” Garrett placed an iced Americano in front of me. “Miss Luciano, please.”
“Thank you.” I took the coffee and sipped it elegantly. “It’s delicious. Thank you for the hospitality.”
“It’s my honor to serve such a beautiful lady,” Garrett said with a flourish. “You captivate me like a rose, Miss Luciano.”
“What an honor,” I replied with feigned curiosity. “Am I the first to hear these words?”
Bert cut in before Garrett could respond. “Trust me, you’re neither the first nor the last to hear that.”
“Bert! Are you doubting my sincerity toward Miss Luciano?”
“No,” Bert denied flatly. “Your sincerity doesn’t exist. Why would I question something that doesn’t exist?”
Ignoring Garrett’s anger, Bert turned to me. “We’re running late. Shall I take you back to the hotel?”
I had no objections. Standing, I thanked Garrett. “The coffee was excellent.”
Garrett enthusiastically offered more coffee anytime I wanted, inviting me to return whenever I liked.
As for Bert, he simply hoped not to see Garrett again for at least a week.
Garrett, however, had other ideas. “See you next week, my friend.”
Garrett’s response made him so furious he practically jumped.
“Any thoughts?” Bert asked me as we left.
I glanced back at Garrett and said lightly, “He’s an easily provoked guy.”
Bert nodded in agreement. “Accurate assessment.”
Back in Bert’s car, fatigue began to weigh on me. I leaned against the seat and didn’t feel like moving.
“Seatbelt,” Bert reminded me as he unlocked his phone’s GPS. “Send me the hotel address.”
The hotel had been booked by Hunter, who had sent me the address in a message. I found the chat, copied the address, and forwarded it to Bert’s email.
Bert paused briefly as he tapped his phone screen.
At that moment, my phone rang. It was Grace.
I answered and casually asked Bert, “What’s wrong?”
A flicker of unease crossed Bert’s face, but he quickly masked it. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
I glanced at him curiously, about to press further, but Grace’s voice came through the phone.
“Bianca, are you listening?” she asked. “Who was that just now? A man? Oh, his voice is as rich as a cello.”
“Is he your lover? Or just a one-night stand?”