I hadn't slept in three days. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Six-five, two hundred forty pounds of muscle and scars and barely contained violence. The kind of man who'd shown up at my door with a bullet in his shoulder and a knife wound in his abdomen, still gripping a gun like it was soldered to his palm. The monster I'd been running from for six months wore asuit and a medical degree. This one had worn blood and Bratva tattoos and looked at me like I'd hung the moon.
"You okay, Doc?" Roberto's brother asked from the corner where he'd been chain-smoking despite my no-smoking rule. "You seem . . . off."
Off. That was one word for it. Another would be compromised. Or stupid. Or dangerously distracted by someone whose world was exactly the kind that had destroyed mine.
"I'm fine." I placed the next suture with unnecessary force, making Roberto wince. "Just tired."
Tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of the way my brain kept replaying how the enforcer's massive frame had trusted my small hands completely, how he'd obeyed when I'd commanded him to drop his gun. Men like him didn't obey anyone, but he'd listened to me like my words were law.
No, Maya. Stop this.
I tied off the last suture with mechanical precision, then reached for the bandages. Roberto would heal fine—clean wound, no nerve damage, no major vessel involvement. He'd have a scar, but men in his line of work collected scars like trophies anyway.
"Keep it dry for forty-eight hours," I told him, wrapping gauze around his forearm. "Change the bandage daily. If you see red streaks or smell anything sweet, go to an emergency room immediately." It was like a mantra.
Roberto's brother counted out bills—six hundred, mostly twenties, wrinkled and soft from too many hands. I took the money without counting it. They'd been here before. They knew the price.
After they left, I stood in my empty clinic, staring at the table I'd already bleached twice since the enforcer's visit. No trace of his blood remained, but I could still see him there—the way hisbody had trusted mine even as it shut down, the way he'd fought to stay conscious just to watch me work.
He was supposed to come back today. Three days, I'd told him. Come back in three days so I could check for infection, make sure the wounds were healing properly.
I should have told him never to come back. Should have made it clear that this was a one-time exception, that I didn't treat Bratva soldiers.
But I hadn't. Because some treacherous part of me wanted to see him again. And not just to check him for infection.
Stupid. Dangerous. Fatal.
Men like him were predators. They identified weakness and exploited it. They took what they wanted and left wreckage behind. I'd learned that lesson from Dr. Richard Brand, who'd smiled at me with paternal concern while destroying my life. The enforcer might look at me with something like wonder now, but wonder turned to possession, and possession turned to control, and control turned to a basement in Brighton Beach where no one could hear you scream.
I yanked off my bloody gloves with more force than necessary. When he came back—if he came back—I'd be professional. Clinical. Distant. I'd check his wounds quickly, confirm they were healing, then tell him to find another doctor for any future medical needs. Make it clear that this wasn't anything except a business transaction that had concluded.
No attachment. No vulnerability. No one who could turn my softness into a weapon.
I'd survived six months by following those rules. I wouldn't break them now for a stranger with dark eyes and a voice that said my professional title like it was a prayer.
When he knocked on my door in a few hours, I'd be ready. Sutures checked, antibiotics prescribed, connection severed.
Simple. Clean. Safe.
I ignored the way my hands started shaking the moment I thought about never seeing him again.
Theknockingcameat11 AM. This had to be him.
I stayed frozen by the utility sink where I'd been washing the same coffee mug for the third time, listening. The knocking came again, frantic. Then, a voice.
Not his.
A woman’s. "Please, doctor, something's wrong, please help, I know you're there—"
I crept to the door, peered through the peephole. Two women—one older, maybe fifty, supporting a younger one who could barely stand. No men. No obvious weapons. The younger one was clutching her side, face twisted in pain.
I opened the door a crack, keeping my body behind it. "I'm closed."
"Please," the older woman said, in accented English. "I am Oksana. I clean houses here, Brighton Beach, twenty years. This is my niece, Kateryna. She had surgery last week, but something is wrong. Very wrong."
Kateryna swayed, and I saw the telltale glassiness in her eyes that meant fever. Post-surgical infection, probably. If I turned them away and she went septic, she'd be dead within days.
I opened the door wider, let them slip inside, locked all three locks behind them. "Get her on the table."
