Chapter 1 - The First Stand
The silence in the master bedroom stretched so tight I could hear the slow, heavy drip of my own pulse in my ears. Dominic Rossi’s dark eyes locked onto mine, burning with a feverish intensity that should have sent me running back down the hallway and out into the rain. Instead, I stood my ground, my fingers gripping the canvas strap of my duffel bag like a lifeline. Rent was due Monday. Eviction was a certainty. A furious, bleeding mafia boss was just another hazard on a very long list of things trying to ruin my life.
“What did you say?” His voice was a raw growl, scraping against the dry air of the overheated room.
“I said no,” I repeated, stepping further past the threshold and letting the heavy double doors click shut behind me. “I didn’t drive thirty miles out into the mountains in a dying sedan to get ordered out of a room by a patient who refuses to heal. If I leave now, you bleed to death on these very expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, and Leo fires me before my boots are even dry. Neither of those options works for me.”
A dangerous shadow crossed his pale, stubbled face. Dominic shifted his weight, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth as the movement wrenched his wounded right shoulder. Fresh crimson bloomed instantly across the white gauze, soaking deeper into the fabric.
“You think you’re brave,” he muttered, his gaze narrowing into something predatory. “Or just stupid. Six others came through that door before you. They all thought they could save the great Dominic Rossi. They left in tears, in ambulances, or with broken bones. What makes you think you’ll survive the night?”
“They treated you like a patient,” I said, marching straight toward the bedside table and dropping my bag with a sharp thud. I flicked on the small brass reading lamp, flooding the immediate area with warm light. “I’m treating you like a math problem. You have a massive localized infection, a fever pushing past one hundred and four, and an active arterial leak. If you tear that suture completely, you’ll flatline before Leo can walk up the stairs. Now, sit up and let me look at it, or I’ll sit on your chest and pin you to the mattress myself.”
For a terrifying second, I thought he was going to lunge. His muscles bunched under his clammy skin, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. The reputation was real; the aura of unbridled, lethal authority radiating off him was suffocating. But beneath the mafia mythology, he was biologically human, and his body was shutting down.
Instead of throwing a lamp, Dominic let out a harsh, bitter breath that rattled in his chest. A dark, cynical amusement flickered in his eyes.
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“Sit on my chest,” he repeated, the corners of his mouth twitching into a reluctant, razor-thin smirk. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Desperate people usually are,” I snapped, already snapping open my duffel and pulling out sterile gloves, antiseptic wash, and heavy-duty surgical scissors. “Hands where I can see them, Mr. Rossi. We’re doing this my way.”
