Doctor under fire: Saved by the Mafia

Chapter 2 :redemption

“Forty eight hours,” he repeated. His voice sounded like stones grinding together in a dark well.

“My doctors are the best in Europe, Dr. Vance. Oxford, Heidelberg you’re telling me they’re incompetent? Or are you suggesting they’re traitors?”

“In my experience, Mr. Moretti, the two often look the same,” I replied. I forced myself to hold his gaze. His eyes weren't just dark; they were bottomless, stripped of any warmth. “The Viper’s Breath won't show up on a standard screen. It mimics a protein deficiency. Your doctors aren't looking for a poison they’re looking for a disease that doesn't exist.”

Suddenly, Dante stiffened. A violent tremor racked his massive frame. He slumped back into the cream leather seat, gasping for air that wouldn't come. Against his sudden pallor, the veins in his neck didn't just bulge they pulsed a sickly, frantic purple.

“Enzo!” Dante choked out.

The man with the scarred nose appeared instantly from the cockpit, a silver medical case gripped in his hand. He glared at me with eyes that promised a slow, agonizing death if I so much as breathed wrong.

“He needs the injection, Boss,” Enzo muttered, his thumb hovering over a pre filled syringe of clear sedative.

“No!” I lunged forward, the silk ribbons at my wrists snapping taut against the chair. “If you put that in his arm, his heart will stop before we even see the lights of Milan.”

Enzo froze.

“That’s a beta blocker,” I rushed on, my voice tight. “It’ll slow his heart just enough for the toxin to settle in his brain stem. You aren't saving him, Enzo. You're finishing the job.”

The needle hovered inches from Dante’s skin. Enzo looked at his boss, then back at me, his lip curling. “She’s a fugitive, Boss. Why are we listening to her?”

“Because,” Dante gasped, his eyes rolling back as he fought to stay conscious, “she’s the only one... who didn't lie about the pain.”

With a burst of dying strength, Dante’s hand shot out. He didn't just move the needle; he shoved Enzo’s wrist away with a snarl. He turned that desperate, predatory fire on me. “Untie her. Now.”

Enzo hesitated for a heartbeat a dangerous eternity in this cabin before pulling a sleek tactical knife. With one fluid, resentful motion, he sliced through the silk.

My hands were free, but my pulse was still hammering against my ribs. I didn't waste a second. I grabbed my leather bag from the corner and tore it open, shoving aside my stethoscope and the useless modern vials. I ripped at the hidden lining in the bottom, pulling out a small, airtight glass jar filled with a pungent, dark green paste.

“What is that filth?” Enzo demanded. His hand moved toward the holstered gun at his hip.

“It’s a neutralizer,” I said, scrambling to Dante’s side. “Traditional medicine isn't ‘filth,’ Enzo. It’s chemistry that predates your Big Pharma by a millennium.”

I climbed onto the seat next to him, my knees pressing against his muscular thigh. I dipped two fingers into the jar; the scent of bitter sage and iron immediately filled the cabin.

“This is going to burn,” I whispered.

Dante didn't answer. He simply bared his neck to me a silent, terrifying command to proceed.

The moment the paste touched his skin, his body jolted as if I’d hit him with a live wire. A low, guttural growl of agony ripped from his throat. His hand flew up, locking around my waist and squeezing so hard I felt my ribs groan under the pressure.

“Hold him!” I yelled at Enzo.

Dante’s head fell back, his teeth bared in a grimace. But as the paste began to sink in, the reaction shifted. The angry purple of the veins began to fade into a dull, bruised blue. The tremors in his hands slowed, and his breathing once shallow and ragged began to pull deep into his lungs.

Slowly, the tension bled out of him. His grip on my waist softened, but he didn't let go. His fingers stayed splayed across my ribs, the heat of his palm sending a traitorous jolt through me. He opened his eyes. The cloudiness was gone, replaced by a clarity as sharp and dangerous as Enzo’s knife.

“The pain,” Dante rasped. His voice was already regaining its weight. “It’s receding.”

“It’s a temporary fix,” I said, my own breath coming in short bursts. Being this close to him felt like standing near a forest fire. “The toxin is still in your organs. To get it all out, I need the fresh root. And I need a secure location where I can work without your 'specialists' looking over my shoulder.”

Dante sat up, his shirt still hanging open. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray hair away from my face. The intensity of his gaze made my skin flush, a reaction I hated myself for.

“We’re not going to Milan,” he told Enzo, his eyes never leaving mine. “Reroute to the villa in Lake Como. Lock it down. And tell our friends at the London hospital that if they want Dr. Vance, they’ll have to come through me.”

He leaned in closer, his lips hovering inches from my ear. His scent expensive cologne and bitter herbs wrapped around me like a shroud.

“You saved me, Amara. But in my world, every gift comes with a price.” He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. “You’re mine now. Until I’m cured. And perhaps long after.”

As he walked toward the cockpit, I stared at his back, the weight of the price settling in my stomach. I had traded a death sentence for a golden cage.