I take my sweater off the hook by the door, shuffle out of the patient recovery room, and pull the mask off my face, but the chilly air in the hallway does little to ease the ache in my chest. My arms shake as I thread them into my sweater sleeves and tug it over my head.
I pushed too hard and now I’m working on fumes. Not physically. Emotionally.
Eight months have passed since the Russian mobsters forced my sister to operate on their leader. Eight months since the scarred monster threatened to return for me. Eight months of nightmare-filled nights and looking over our shoulders all day long.
My sister hasn’t touched me, not even a casual handshake or pat on the back, since our hug in the hallway. No matter how many hours I exhaust myself at work or how hard I train in the gym, I can’t ignore the gaping hole in my heart or the incessant buzzing under my skin.
Usually, a few hours of sparring can replace the emotional discomfort with enough physical pain to mask my symptoms, but even my weighted blankets and anxiety relief plushies don’t help.
“Hey, Loretta,” Samantha calls out from behind the front desk. I lift my chin and head toward her as she speaks. “Livia wasn’t feeling well, so she left early with Tabitha and Ariel since that was their last surgery for the day,” she says.
“Thanks, Samantha,” I say.
“Any news on the transfer?” she asks before I can head toward the locker room.
I still have two patients to anesthetize today, but a few minutes off my feet sounds like a dream right now.
“We’re still waiting,” I say.
“Any idea what’s taking so long?” Samantha asks.
I fill my lungs and shake my head.
At first, Livia and her team seemed just as eager as me to transfer, but as the weeks went by and no criminals came back for us, they lost their sense of urgency. When the police told us they had several suspects in custody for us to identify, we went to the station together, only for them to announce the entire line up had fought and killed each other in the holding cell overnight. Most of the men beat each other to a pulp so we couldn’t view the bodies, but they produced photos of when they’d arrested them.
Even as a tiny photograph on a screen, the scarred monster’s evil glare made my insides curdle.
I don’t believe he’s dead. Maybe if I saw his body I would, but I can’t take the cops’ word for it.
I’ll never forget the look of embarrassment on Livia’s face when I voiced my doubts in the police station. The officer apologized for not being able to give me closure since the bodies were now part of an investigation on the station’s procedures, so I dropped the topic and saved Livia from further humiliation.
When I take too long to form a response, Samantha tilts her head and raises her brows.
“I think the company is worried we’ll leave too big of a gap here if we transfer to another location,” I answer with a shrug.
She rolls her eyes but nods.
“You and your sister are becoming renowned for your flawless teamwork, so I can see the company being hesitant to move you.”
“Thanks. I have about thirty minutes before my next procedure, so I’m going to—”
Glass shatters and gunshots blast through the room. I drop onto my stomach and belly crawl around the desk to Samantha. She screams and holds her head. When I pull her hands away, blood coats her palms.
“Don’t panic! Head wounds bleed a lot. It’s just a scratch from the partition shattering, not a gunshot wound. You’re okay,” I yell over the sounds of panicked screaming from the waiting room.
She blinks and searches my face, and when I whip her coat off the back of her chair and press it to the shallow cut on her head, she takes over, applying pressure without guidance.
A man with a heavy accent lets out a curse. Ice travels down my spine until I realize he yells to his buddies in Spanish, not Russian. The shooting stops. Glass crunches under someone’s boots as they run away.
I count for five breaths and listen for signs of danger before the agonized yelling is too much to bear.
“Call nine-one-one. I need to go help,” I tell Samantha.
“Wait,” she yells, but I’m already around the desk.
I jump over the row of toppled chairs closest to the reception desk and drop to a knee beside the grey-haired woman sitting in a pool of blood.
“Where are you hurt?” I ask.
“It’s not my blood. It’s my son’s. He went outside, but my leg—”
I grab her shoulder and push her down onto her butt so she doesn’t injure herself further.
“You—” I point to the nearest woman, “sit with her. Don’t let her get up. The ambulance will be here soon.”
I rush outside.
A woman in a wedding dress attends to the man with the worst injuries, so I scan the rest of the mayhem and dart toward the man with blood pouring from his thigh. I whip my sweater off over my head and press it to his wound. He screams. I offer him terse assurances.
Despite my focus, the emotional upheaval of those around me sinks under my defenses and merges into the growing black hole in my soul.
While I lean all my weight on the man’s wound, I search for the next victim who needs care.
The woman in her wedding dress tears a strip of fabric off her skirt and uses it to stanch the flow of blood from her patient’s wound.
An older man with a gut rushes forward and drops to his knees beside me.
“I’m an Army vet. I’ll hold pressure until the paramedics get here. The group of ladies over there won’t accept my help, but one—”
Alarm spears through me as I realize a heavily pregnant woman hunches over and clutches her stomach in the middle of the group. I grab his wrist and pass the compression job over to him as I rise.
The woman in her wedding dress calls out commands behind me, so I focus on the gaggle of women despite the man sitting on the curb with a large gash across his back.
I push the concerned women aside and address the mother.
“Where are you hurt?” I ask.
She shakes her head and grimaces before straightening.
“I think I was already in labor. I’m fine. My husband went to get the car,” she says.
When a visual check shows no signs of trauma, I nod and say, “That’s probably for the best, since the first few ambulances will be taken. Does anyone else—”
My words catch in my throat as I turn and meet slate-grey eyes. In a black tuxedo with tattoos peeking out from his collar, the man stalking toward me is the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but the lethal prowess in his gait and the fury in his glare send streaks of alarm through my veins.
I’ve never seen him before—no woman with a libido would forget the perfection of his face—but the hatred in his eyes seems to indicate recognition.
Fear curls around my spine, and I consider bolting toward the parking lot, but a woman in her early twenties with a deep laceration on her cheek steps in front of me. I shake my head to clear away my ridiculous musings and snap back into first responder mode.
With a few calm words, I assure the woman she’s fine and press the corner of her jacket to the cut on her cheek.
When the ambulances arrive, I move the gaggle of ladies out of the way and manage the lesser cases as I watch the woman in her wedding dress out of the corner of my eye. Her ability to orchestrate the chaos into a polished symphony fills me with awe, and when the paramedics thank her, my need to show her my appreciation overwhelms me. I rush into the clinic, weaving around the worst of the mess, and grab a packet of wet wipes before darting out onto the sidewalk.
As she ducks under the police tape, the sunlight glints off her white dress, highlighting the crimson stains and torn fabric.
My lungs burn and black dots dance in my vision, but I dart after her and duck under the tape.
“Hey! Excuse me,” I call out.
She stops and turns. Her glassy eyes show her mental fatigue, but she offers me a small smile. I stop a few feet away from her, aware most people need space to recover after a shocking event.
“You can come into the clinic and wash up, if you want,” I offer.
She shakes her head.
“Then take these,” I say as I step forward and place the wet wipes in her hand. Despite the blood caking our digits, relief travels up my arm at the touch. It may be the least intimate touch imaginable, but it’s the most non-trauma-related skin-to-skin contact I’ve had in weeks.
Awkwardness barrels through me as I realize I’ve held her hand for longer than was socially acceptable. I let her go despite wanting to cling to her and force myself to step back.
Worry heightens my senses even as exhaustion adds a hundred pounds to each of my limbs. She looks ready to lie down on the sidewalk and take a nap too, so I search the area for her groom. I fight a wave of disappointment as I realize the man I saw earlier is probably her new husband.
“I’m sorry about your dress.” The apology slips out, but I don’t know why. This wasn’t my fault. “Where’s your—”
I freeze as Fiero Capito, the second son of San Francisco’s most powerful mafia boss, stalks toward us. He’s no longer the young boy I met over twenty years ago, but there’s no mistaking his identity.
My father, Alvaro Giordano, worked several deals with his father when we were kids. As the fastest growing mafia family in San Jose, we traveled to San Francisco a handful of times. Even if it was a lifetime ago, there’s no way he won’t recognize me once he looks away from his bride, so the moment he grabs her, I slip away toward the clinic.
Fate cannot be this cruel. My stepmother banished my sister and me from our family in San Jose, so my brother sent us as far away as he possibly could to New York City. What the hell is Fiero Capito doing here?
Broad shoulders catch my attention through a break in the crowd. No longer wearing his suit coat, the most handsome man on the planet’s tattoos leave dark outlines through his white shirts. His striking profile fills me with longing, but worms crawl in my belly as I realize he came around the corner with Fiero earlier. Which means he’s mafia, too. He shakes hands with a police officer. I spin on my heel and dart around the corner of the building, praying no one sees my hasty retreat.
Two cab drivers yell at each other in the middle of the parking lot. I lower my head but stay aware of my surroundings as I continue along the wall toward the back of the building.
Overwhelmed from a full day’s work, the shooting, and the unexpected appearance of a man I’d hoped to never meet again, panic scrambles my thoughts for a moment, but the connection with my sister twangs, snapping me out of a potential spiral. I shove my emotions behind a partition and glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me. When the few people within eyesight seem occupied with their own lives, I slip into the narrow lane between the buildings. Used mainly for deliveries and trash collection, the back alley sports a maze of dumpsters, metal rolling doors, concrete steps, and industrial doors.
The hairs on my nape rise. I skirt around the nearest dumpster and slide into the space between it and the stairs. My heart pounds against my sternum.
I stand wedged in the corner like a mouse caught in a trap for several moments, too scared to move. My purse is still in my locker at work. I have nothing. No ID. No apartment key. No cash.
When the uncertainty becomes unbearable, I tilt my head and peer over the steps, checking the area behind my office before feeling brave enough to look toward the mouth of the alley. Everything seems the same, so I inch forward and peek around the dumpster.
No massive, tatted mafia man stands blocking the exit, so I tiptoe a little further out and wait another few seconds before sighing in relief.
It’s broad daylight. We’re closer to the suburbs than city streets. The storefront is swarming with cops, reporters, and onlookers because of the shooting.
I’m imagining things. No one noticed me come back here. I’m fine. I’m safe.
The hairs on my nape refuse to relax.
Even though I know it’s locked, I take the stairs to the back door of the clinic and twist the handle. It doesn’t budge.
Knocking won’t help since everyone is probably in the front half of the building managing the crisis. I drop my forehead to the cold, dirty metal and just breathe for a moment, needing a few seconds of silence to center myself.
Relief calms the emotions churning behind my sternum. My sister went home early, so she missed the chaos. She was never in danger.
A horrible thought clenches my stomach.
What if the shooting was connected to the Russian mobsters and that’s why the Italian mafia showed up?
I scratch the idea. The shooter spoke Spanish, the mafia couple was in wedding attire, and the surgical team that worked on the Russian had no more surgeries scheduled for this afternoon.
With one mental hurdle cleared but a million more in line, I swallow the lump of emotion stuck in my throat and turn around.
Terror glues my sneakers to the landing as I meet eyes the color of steel. Even though we’re surrounded by shades of grey, his irises dance with icy hatred.
In his white shirt with his sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos on his muscular forearms and his wide shoulders straining the seams, the man I don’t have a name for stands at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at me.
I fight the urge to bolt. There’s nowhere to go. He’ll catch me within seconds even if I jump over the railing.
“Didn’t I warn you not to let me catch your lying, scheming ass in New York City ever again, bugiarda?”
I don’t know who he thinks I am or why he’s calling them a liar, but his low, menacing rumble reaches deep into my chest and shakes my bones. I shuffle backward on instinct as he ascends the stairs with slow, predatory grace.
My back hits the door. He lifts his dress shoe onto the top step.
I open my mouth to speak, not sure what I plan to say, but when he reaches for me, my body reacts. With his back foot still on a lower step and his arm extended toward me, his Adam’s apple—which has no business being so sexy—becomes the center of my focus. Years’ worth of training kicks in and I lash out, throwing my entire body into the uppercut toward his throat.
Pain travels up my arm, but I follow through, duck under his arm, and dart across the loading dock.
I grab the railing, jump over, and stumble through a halfway decent landing before turning at the last second and hitting my shoulder on the dumpster instead of my face. I shove off the filthy surface and dash around the corner. My heart pounds in my ears. I train my gaze on the mouth of the alley and will my legs to carry me faster.
Before I reach the next dumpster, I’m hit by a semi from behind. I brace myself for an agonizing fall but find myself pinned against the wall with my hands over my head and thick fingers tight around my throat instead. His hard, masculine body flattens my softer curves to the building.
I should hate it. I should fight.
I can’t. He’s too strong. Too big. Too perfect.
He overpowers me with ease and rips my need for human touch wide open, leaving me a trembling ball of desperation.
I close my eyes, blocking my view of his face, but it’s too late. His slate-grey eyes, thick lashes, kissable lips, and tempting jawline superimpose themselves in my mind’s eye so no matter what I imagine, his handsome features remain visible.
“You know you’ll only piss me off more if you cry, so don’t bother squeezing out a few tears. Capisci?” he snarls.
I curl my hands into fists and fight the emotions storming through me. My soul threatens to split in two from the turmoil.
“How long have you been in New York?” he asks.
I swallow but can’t think beyond my mixed feelings. He feels so good pressed against me, but the menace wafting off him scares the hell out of me.
He scoffs and tightens his hand around my throat.
“This isn’t your normal getup. Who are you conning this time, Julieta?”
Shock spears through me even as understanding dawns. He thinks I’m my stepsister. Horror grows within me.
Before she ruined the tattered remains of my life in San Jose, she came to New York City for a few weeks with one goal; catch the eye of the next up-and-coming consigliere to the most powerful mafia family in the big city. Knowing her, when she couldn’t gain his affection, she burned as many bridges as possible.
I know who this man is. His reaction proves it.
Ermanno Mancini, the man my stepsister wanted to use for her own gain but couldn’t. The most lethal man in the New York City mafia scene pins me to the wall in a back alley with no escape in sight and fury emanating from him.
Despite my stilted breaths from his weight pressed against my body and his grip around my throat bordering on cruel, my soul warps his touch into pleasure and uses it to feed the black hole yearning for physical contact with another human being.
When he tsks and leans closer, I accept my fate and pull my resolve tight around me.
I’d rather he think I’m my stepsister than reveal my identity and put my twin in danger. I don’t know what my estranged stepsister did to make him hate her, but if pretending to be Julieta will stop this psycho from digging around and realizing Livia operated on the Russian mob boss eight months ago, then I’ll gladly accept whatever punishment he intends to dole out.
If that means ignoring how my body sparks to life despite the cruelty of his grip around my throat and the brutality shining from his eyes, then I’ll do it.
I’ll do anything to protect my twin, even if it means putting myself at the mercy of a monster.
I lift my lashes knowing I won’t find an ounce of compassion in his slate-grey eyes.
