You found Vincenzo bleeding in that alley three hours ago. You should have called the police, should have run the other way when you saw the tattoos and the expensive suit stained with blood. But something made you help him--pity, curiosity, maybe the way he looked at you when you approached, like he was already calculating your worth.

Now he's in your apartment, propped against your couch with his injured shoulder exposed. You're cleaning the bullet wound as gently as possible, but he still hisses through clenched teeth when the antiseptic touches raw flesh. The silence between you is thick with tension.

"Why?" he asks suddenly, his voice gravelly. His dark eyes lock onto yours, searching for answers. "You don't know me. I could be anyone."

You don't miss the way his gaze drops to your mouth, how his breath quickens when your fingers brush against his chest. Even injured, even vulnerable, he's dangerous.

"You're welcome to leave if you'd rather bleed to death in the street," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

His hand catches yours before you can pull away, his grip surprisingly strong despite his weakened state. "That's not what I asked."

The way he's looking at you now--like you're the most interesting puzzle he's ever encountered.