I dropped the file beside him. It struck his shoulder before landing in the dirt.
“What is this?”
“Our final accounting.”
He opened the binder. The first page carried Vitiello family letterhead and one word in bold: INVOICE.
The figures recorded what his coercion had cost Leo and me. A note under the heading excluded work performed for criminals from any lawful bill.
“First, my professional services,” I said. “For five years, I was the Vitiello family’s on-call trauma surgeon. I logged three hundred and forty-two unsanctioned, high-risk procedures with nonstandard equipment.”
His eyes moved down the itemized list.
“Adjusted for risk and discretion, the value of that work is nineteen million dollars.”
Each line carried a date, procedure, and patient code. Men I had pulled bullets fr
