Chapter 1
Samantha
Nausea from the coating of bodily fluids and anxiety is climbing up my throat.As a doctor, I thought I was immune to large amounts of blood. But there’s no way to prepare for how warm, sticky and intimate it is when it’s soaking through your dress from a man bleeding out in your lap. No way to steel yourself against the knowledge that someone’s life is literally spilling out onto you. Especially when it’s your job to keep that man alive. Oh, and said man is Mac Donnelly, head of the Chicago Irish mob.
Mac took a bullet to the chest from a sniper at his daughter’s wedding. His daughter Lennon had just married Sandro, the Italian mafia don of Tampa. Mafia men are notoriously against bringing their business to hospitals where there’ll be records and investigations. That’s usually where I come in. I’m the doctor on cash payroll of said Italian mafia to treat most things off the record and in private.
But tonight, I stood my ground against Mac’s two sons, insisting he be rushed to Tampa General. I’ve taken an oath to do no harm, and I take that shit seriously.
After a thirty-second heated argument, they finally carried Mac to the car.
I hadn’t planned on accompanying them to the hospital. I had my own trauma to deal with. But when Killian’s glitteringgreen eyes met mine and he growled, “Get in the fuckin’ car, Doc,” I felt myself obey. My body was numb, my mind on autopilot as I called ahead to let the ER know we were bringing in a gunshot victim.
Now his middle son Sullivan “Sully” Donnelly is driving like a pro Nascar racer as we close in on Tampa General at record speed. He resembles a ginger grizzly bear with tattoos and a slightly better temperament. Not a bad dancer, either.
Killian, who’s in the backseat with me, is a few years younger, a few inches taller, with cropped, bleached hair and a much more lethal aura. His dad’s legs are draped over him, and he’s pressing someone’s shirt against the wound. Every time Killian lifts his gaze from his father’s gray face to mine, his green eyes are illuminated by the southbound lane headlights, and it’s like being stabbed with shards of glass. There’s a feral rage there that he barely has leashed.
His voice is a low, quiet promise of pain as he glares at me. “If he dies on your watch, I’m diggin’ two graves.”
I open my mouth to defend myself.
As soon as I’d lowered my ear to Mac’s chest, the silence had hit me. A collapsed lung. I’d gone on autopilot, jabbing a 16-gauge needle in the safe space between his second and third rib, releasing the trapped air and letting his lung expand enough to keep him alive. For that moment. Besides the blood loss and whatever other vessel or organ damage he’d suffered, he needed more than I could do in the field.
But I just give a curt nod, because there’s no point in arguing. I also know if this brings law enforcement heat down on their organization, he will be digging two graves. I was damned if I did. Damned if I didn’t.
Sully’s eyes flick up to meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Don’t pay him any mind, lass, he’s always a feckin’ arsehole when he’s stressed.”
“I can make that three, dickhead,” Killian growls.
Sully raises an eyebrow at me like “told you so”. Then his brown eyes move to his brother’s as he whips the car around a slow-moving truck, ignoring the horn blowing from the car he cut off. “You need to call Mam.”
“She’s already sick,” Killian growls. I knew it was the reason she couldn’t travel from Chicago to attend the wedding with Mac. “I’ll call her when Da’s out of the woods.”
Now, as Sully slams on the brakes, screeching to a halt in front of the ER doors, I take a deep breath, trying not to freak out. Flinging his door open, he barrels inside and returns seconds later with a crowd of hospital staff.
I know this is the level one trauma team. Emergency physician, trauma surgeon, nurses, respiratory therapist. Their focus is intense as they watch Sully yank open the back door and help Killian maneuver Mac’s blood-soaked, unconscious body onto the gurney. Then they explode into action. The ER doctor barks orders as they rush Mac away from us, into the trauma bay.
A nurse stops us from following with a firm hand. “Follow me, I’ll take you to the waiting room.”
Sully tosses his keys to the valet, and we trail behind her through the sliding doors, down a hallway and into a large waiting area with sofas, chairs, a TV, and a coffee machine.
“An admin will be with you shortly to fill out some forms. The doctors will do everything they can.” She’s being professional, but there’s curiosity in her gaze as it flicks overKillian and Sully, their dress shirts unbuttoned enough to expose intricate tattoos and stained with their father’s blood. “Also, the police will be here shortly to talk to you. It’s standard protocol for gunshot victims.”
Killian’s jaw flexes but he nods once.
I collapse into a chair and stare at the blood in the creases of my palms and beneath my nails, then at the dark stain on my yellow flowered dress. I need to wash it off, but I can’t move. My brain is registering the familiar smells, noises, and sights, setting off my nervous system.
The meltdown is coming like a freight train I can’t stop. My insides begin to tremble. My vision narrows, grows spotty. My chest tightens until all I can manage is a wheezing breath. My eyes dart around, my nostrils flare. Danger. Red fucking danger alarms race through my body. I have to get out of here. I push to my feet, muscles like noodles.
Suddenly there’s a hard body in front of me. Blocking me.
“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Killian’s low snarl registers and the panic flares. “You stay until Da is out of the woods.”
He reaches for my arm and at his touch, a white blaze of terror explodes behind my eyes. My palm is like a snake lashing out furious and uncontrollable, connecting with a smack. The pain reverberating in my hand and up my arm snaps me back to the present. My gaze widens in horror as I watch blood bloom on Killian’s bottom lip.
His eyes darken like sunlight vanishing behind a storm cloud as they hold mine.
Holy shit. Why did I do that?
