A slot at my table was nearly impossible to get.
Wounded men were carried in from three territories away, smuggled through back roads for hours, just to have my hands and no one else's stitching them shut where no Fed report would ever be filed.
A last-minute change in the schedule meant I'd quietly traded my afternoon hours with another of the Family's surgeons for the noon block. By morning the men were already lined down the corridor of the back-room, the air thick with leather and old blood, and I hadn't even had time for a sip of water.
At the busiest point of the day, the door to the surgery flew open.
A man rushed in carrying a pregnant woman drenched in blood.
Her face was ashen, her consciousness already slipping, blood dripping steadily from the hem of her dress and dragging a glaring red smear across the floor.
"Doctor! Save her!"
The man's voice shook, almost begging.
"Our slot's in the afternoon, but she's hemorrhaging all of a sudden, she's not going to make it!"
"My wife's always been frail, and now they've found it's an ectopic pregnancy. She could die! Please, save her first!"
The room went silent in an instant.
Every gaze in the back-room landed on the two of them.
I frowned and set down the chart in my hand at once.
Bound by my oath, faced with something like this, my body reacted almost before my mind did.
"Critical patient goes to the back table first."
"Prep for off-the-books work, I'll be right—"
Halfway through, I lifted my head.
The next second, every sound cut off.
The air seemed to freeze.
The man holding the pregnant woman went rigid where he stood.
And I, at last, saw his face clearly.
Dario Conti.
My husband of nine years.
The man the Falcone bloodline had floated a crew and a territory, on our tribute money, the day he married into us.
The man who'd told me on the phone just yesterday that he was handling business in another state and wouldn't be back until next week.
And here he was, holding another woman who carried his child, kneeling before me in a bloody mess, begging for help.
Our eyes met.
The color drained clean from Dario's face.
His mouth opened, as if he wanted to explain something, but not a single word came out.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Even the runner beside me sensed something was wrong and stood frozen in place.
I looked at the woman in his arms.
At the swell of her belly.
Then back at Dario's ashen face.
And I laughed.
The smile never reached my eyes.
"So that's how it is."
I rose slowly to my feet, my voice so calm it sounded foreign even to me.
"This is what you called handling business out of state?"
My gaze settled on the woman in his arms, and I gave a small nod.
"It really has been…"
"Hard work for you."
…
A place at my table was always hard to come by.
Wounded soldiers were smuggled in from territories ten hours out, riding back roads through the night, just to put their lives in my hands and no one else's.
So the men wouldn't make the trip for nothing, I'd quietly traded a day of hours with another of the Family's surgeons.
The result was that from morning on, the corridor outside the back-room was packed with men.
I didn't even have time for a sip of water.
At the busiest point of noon, the surgery door was suddenly shoved open.
A man stumbled in, carrying a pregnant woman covered in blood.
Her face was ashen, her forehead beaded with cold sweat, blood streaming down the hem of her dress and quickly pooling into a glaring patch of red on the floor.
"Doctor! Please, save her!"
The man's voice trembled, on the verge of breaking.
"Our slot's in the afternoon, but she's hemorrhaging out of nowhere, she's not going to make it!"
"She's always been frail, and now they've found it's an ectopic pregnancy. She could really die! Please, save her first!"
The room fell silent at once.
I frowned and set down the chart in my hand immediately.
Bound by my oath, faced with something like this, the first instinct is always to save the patient.
"Get the table cleared and the kit ready."
"Critical patient goes under first, I'll be right—"
The next second, my voice cut off.
The air seemed to freeze on the spot.
The man holding the pregnant woman froze too.
The panic and dread hadn't even left his face before he went completely rigid where he stood.
The man who'd told me on the phone just yesterday that he was handling business in another state and wouldn't be back anytime soon.
And here he was, holding another pregnant woman, standing in my surgery.
The instant our eyes met, the color visibly drained from Dario's face.
His mouth opened, as if he wanted to explain something.
But in front of a back-room full of wounded men and runners, not a single word came out.
The silence around us was so deep you could have heard a pin drop.
Even the runner beside me, ready to take the patient, sensed something was off and stared at us, stunned.
My gaze drifted slowly to the high swell of the woman's belly.
Then back to Dario's ashen face.
It felt like something had stabbed my heart, hard.
Yet strangely, once the pain passed, what came after was calm.
I laughed all of a sudden.
"Dario."
I said his name softly.
"This is the business out of state you told me about?"
His throat bobbed. He wet his lower lip, and I watched the laugh come a half-beat too soon, his hand drifting up to straighten a tie that was already straight. His arms tightened around the woman without his meaning them to.
"Honey, I…"
He'd barely started when I cut him off.
I looked at the woman fading in his arms, my gaze as cold as if I were looking at a stranger.
"It really has been hard work for you."
"Keeping your pregnant outsider company at her checkups, while squeezing in time to report your whereabouts to me."
"And all these years, I never noticed a thing."
With that, I pressed the call to the next room.
When I looked up again, I'd returned to the composure my oath demanded of me.
"Clear the table and prep."
"Ectopic pregnancy, hemorrhaging. Bring her back, now."
"As for everything else—"
My eyes swept across Dario's face.
My voice was calm, without a ripple in it.
"Once she's alive, we'll settle the rest, slowly."
