Immaculate Deception - A Mafia Romance

ARYA

A SMALL VETERINARY CLINIC-NEW YORK CITY-LATE AT NIGHT

People always ask me why I'm a good veterinarian. Why all the sick and injured creatures that come to my clinic listen to me. Why they love me.

The answer is simple: wounded creatures recognize one another.

And I'm as wounded as they come.

The broken part of them sees the broken part of me and vice versa. Sometimes, that's all the medicine it takes. Just to understand that you're not alone in this world.

I'm all alone right now, though. Not in a "woe is me" kind of way. I just mean that, literally, I'm here by myself.

Everyone else left the clinic hours ago, off to friends and families and lovers and hobbies and all kinds of things like that. But Roxie, the mutt with the broken back leg who was abandoned on the clinic's front stoop this morning, decided she'd forgotten how to eat. So I hung around late after the work day ended to coax kibble down her throat, one hand-fed piece at a time.

She's a scrawny little thing. Mangy, too. But she's got eyes like pools of liquid gold and the kind of happily wagging tail that just never quits. She's worked her way into my heart with remarkable speed.

So, I'm staying late. Like, really late. The clock on the wall reads almost midnight.

I don't mind, though. I don't have much to go home to. Just an empty apartment and some Chinese takeout leftovers in my fridge. Roxie needs me more than I need dumplings.

After almost three hours, she's finally eaten a reasonable amount of food. Enough to get her through the night and help keep down her pain meds, at least.

She's snoozing in her cage now, with that pitiful pink cast stuck out at an awkward angle. But even in her dreams, she keeps wagging her tail. I smile at the sight.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I go around the clinic to turn off lights and lock up. Then I grab my purse and keys from my locker, pull my jacket on over my scrubs, and head for the back door.

Before I get there, though, the back door explodes.

"Explodes" might be a bit melodramatic. But it definitely bursts open with an ear-splitting WHAM! The sound of the slam rattles all the contents of the clinic.

"What the fuck?!" I scream as I jump about three feet in the air like I'm in those old Tom & Jerry cartoons. My leap carries me stumbling backwards until the corner of a metal counter jabs into my spine.

I hiss in pain. But my pain disappears when I see a massive, shadowy figure moving in through the open doorway.

It's either a huge man or a grizzly bear walking on its hind legs.

To be honest, I think I'd prefer the grizzly. I have better luck with animals than with men.

The figure stumbles in, slams the door closed, and leans against it, breathing heavily.

Definitely a man. What a pity.

I'm halfway to screaming, "What the fuck!" again-when he looks up and sees me.

At least, I think he sees me. His hood is pulled forward and low, hiding what little of his face I would have otherwise been able to see in the dim lights. The rest is obscured by a thick beard. All I can make out is the twin pinprick of dark eyes set deep in their sockets.

"Who are you?" he growls. His voice is deep. I can't tell if it's natural or he's disguising it.

"Who am I?" I echo in disbelief. I grab the straps of my purse in my fist, ready to swing it like a pair of ninja nunchucks if need be. "Says the guy who just kicked in my goddamn door! Who the hell are you?"

He ignores my question. "You're a doctor?"

"I'm a vet."

"Same thing." He moves towards me. As he does, I realize how much of his height was lost in his slouch against the door. Standing tall, he's six and a half feet at least, and broad through the shoulders like a linebacker.

The purse in my hand suddenly feels like a pebble. David had a better chance against Goliath.

"It really, really isn't the same thing," I tell him. "There's an emergency room ten blocks west if you need a doctor."

I'm scanning the room for other weapon choices and coming up woefully short. So far, a tennis ball is topping the list.

I might be in quite a bit of trouble.

"I don't want a doctor," he says. "I want you." His words are spoken with a steely calm that sends awareness buzzing into my limbs.

I take a step back, fear clotting in my throat. "Are you with the Albanians?" I ask in a timid voice I hardly recognize. "Because I don't want any of your bullshit mob drama coming into my clinic."

Fuck. I shouldn't have said that.

I buried those demons a long time ago. Those secrets. Those skeletons in my closet.

But the question came out of me totally unbidden. As if I've always known, deep in my heart, that the past I thought I fled wasn't quite done with me yet.

That it was simply hibernating.

Waiting until the right time to come ruin my life again.

For a long time after everything happened, I carried a knife in my purse. A lot of good that'll do you against armed mobsters, my best friend Brigitte always said.

Eventually, realizing she was right, I got rid of it. I never had it in me to carry a gun. Besides-after a while, it all seemed unnecessary. My past had stayed in the rearview mirror, where it belonged.

At least, I thought it did.

Now, I'm not so sure.

The man barks out a laugh. I can't tell if he's surprised or offended.

"Well?" I demand. "Are you?"

He shakes his head. "You ask too many questions. Questions that could get you killed."

Then he rolls up his shirt sleeve and I see the reason for his sudden appearance.

Blood is caked across the rippling muscles of his forearm. When he moves, fresh blood spurts out. He scowls at the pain.

I don't have to look any closer to know what it is: a gunshot wound.

"You've been shot!" I gasp. I wince as soon as I say it. What an idiotic comment. As if he wasn't aware.

"Funny you should point that out," he drawls. "I noticed it as well. Mind doing something about it?"

I still can't see much of his face beneath the hood. Not enough to pick him out of a crowd, at least.

But those dark, glittering eyes... Those haven't left my face for a second.

I swallow past an obnoxiously large knot in my throat. "I already told you, I'm a vet. If you need a doctor, there's an emergency room-"

There's a quick flash of movement. And then he's holding a gun, pointed at me.

"I said, 'Mind doing something about that?'" he repeats. Any hint of a question is gone from his voice.

Fuck me. Looks like my work day isn't over after all.

I stare for a moment longer into the darkness where his face is hidden. I don't know what I'm looking for. But whatever it is, I don't find it.

Plus, that gun is very hard to ignore.

Fine. I'll patch this asshole up and then send him on his way.

I spin on my heel and march towards the exam room just down the hall. He follows on heavy footsteps.

Yanking the door open, I gesture for him to go inside. "Sit down and put your gun away," I order. "I can't focus if I'm worried about getting shot."

Anyone else would be scared-and I suppose I am, at least a little.

But not as scared I should be. This is the broken part of me. The cracked pieces of my heart that the animals connect with. The part that's sickeningly familiar with fear and abuse and violence.

If I've learned anything in my life, it's that it's best to go along to get along. I'll patch this man up the best I can, then hope I never see him again.

Not for his sake-but for mine.

He brushes past me. His scent invades my nostrils: sweat, blood, and beneath all that, a swirling, musky cologne that makes my head swim.

I wrinkle my nose and ignore how it makes me feel. The less of this man I notice, the better.