A lethal dose of you

THE DAYLIGHT TAX

The harsh, fluorescent lights of the university hospital basement were a brutal wake-up call from the neon glamour of The Obsidian.

Elena sat at a metal desk, her eyes burning with exhaustion as she stared at a laminated anatomical chart of the human nervous system. It was 7:00 AM. She had slipped out of the club at 4:00 AM, slept for ninety minutes in her car, and walked straight into her pediatric rotation. Her scrubs felt two sizes too big, hiding the lean, athletic posture that had mesmerized the city’s most dangerous man just hours prior.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. She swiped it open to see a text from Mrs. Gable, the elderly neighbor who watched her eight-year-old brother, Leo.

Leo is fed and off to school, sweetie. But the landlord left another notice on the door. He says Friday is the absolute limit.

Elena swallowed the lump in her throat, her chest tightening with a familiar, suffocating panic. She had made good tips last night before the chaos broke out, but it still wasn't enough to cover the back-rent and Leo's upcoming school fees. Grief for her parents threatened to surface, but she ruthlessly pushed it down. She didn't have time to cry. She had to survive.

"Cole!" the chief resident barked, stepping into the breakroom and tossing a heavy medical chart onto the table. "Stop daydreaming, Elena. We have an influx of VIP transfers coming in from a private clinic uptown. Guarded patients. I need you down in trauma bay four immediately."

Elena blinked away her fatigue, her professional instincts kicking in. "On it, Doctor."

She grabbed her stethoscope and hurried down the sterile, white corridors. When she pushed through the double doors of trauma bay four, however, the air instantly left her lungs.

The room didn't smell like antiseptic; it smelled like expensive cologne, rich tobacco, and blood. Two massive, broad-shouldered men in tailored suits stood guard by the curtains, their hands subtly resting inside their jackets.

And sitting calmly on the edge of the examination bed, a pristine white bandage being wrapped around a deep laceration on his forearm, was Gabriel Vance.

He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His expensive silk shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark, intricate tattoos creeping up his neck. He looked entirely out of place in the sterile hospital room—a predator lounging in a cage.

Elena froze in the doorway, her hand gripping her clipboard so tightly her knuckles turned white. She was wearing oversized green scrubs, her hair tied back in a messy, utilitarian bun, and not a single trace of makeup on her face. She looked entirely different from the fierce, hypnotic dancer from the VIP lounge.

Gabriel was mid-sentence, speaking in a low, commanding tone to one of his men, when his eyes flicked toward the door.

He stopped talking.

His dark, piercing gaze locked onto her face. For a second, Elena prayed to whatever cosmic force was listening that the disguise of her medical uniform would shield her. But Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, a sudden, intense heat flaring in his expression. He recognized her instantly. The sharp, analytical mind that ruled the city's underworld put the pieces together in a heartbeat—the flawless execution of the nerve strike last night hadn't been a fluke. She was a medical student.

A slow, profoundly dangerous smile spread across Gabriel’s face. He dismissed his guard with a slight wave of his hand.

"Leave the room," Gabriel murmured, his eyes never breaking contact with Elena. "I think I've found the perfect doctor to handle my treatment."

The heavy privacy curtain clicked shut, cutting off the rest of the trauma bay. It was just the two of them now in the small, sterile cubicle.

Gabriel sat back on the examination bed, his dark eyes locked onto Elena's face, tracking every twitch of her facial muscles. He was waiting for the panic. He was waiting for her to beg him to keep her secret, or at least acknowledge the explosive violence they had shared just hours ago.

Elena felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she ruthlessly forced her breathing to slow. Years of grueling medical rounds had taught her how to keep a perfect poker face under extreme pressure. She picked up a fresh pair of sterile gloves, snapping them onto her hands with a crisp, professional echo.

"Good morning, sir," Elena said, her voice entirely flat, clinical, and devoid of a single trace of recognition. She didn't look into his eyes; she focused strictly on the laceration on his arm. "I'm Elena Cole, the student doctor assigned to your triage. Please hold your arm still so I can assess the wound."

Gabriel’s brow twitched. The dangerous smile on his face didn't fade, but his eyes narrowed into razor-sharp slits. "Elena Cole," he repeated, tasting the name. "You're playing a dangerous game, Bella. Last night you were shattering crystal over a man's skull with the precision of a trained assassin. Today, you're pretending you don't know who I am?"

Elena didn't blink. She gently took his forearm, inspecting the deep cut. "Mr. Vance, according to your chart, you've suffered a laceration from a shattered glass fixture at a private residence. Increased heart rate and mild delusions can sometimes occur due to adrenaline or blood loss. If you're experiencing hallucinations or confusing me with someone else, I can order a CT scan to check for a concussion."

Gabriel let out a low, dark laugh that vibrated in his chest. He didn't pull his arm away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his heavy, expensive cologne entirely overwhelming the scent of the hospital antiseptic.

"Hallucinations," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, seductive whisper. "You're good. Very good. But don't insult my intelligence, Elena. I know exactly who you are. And I think you know exactly what I could do to this hospital—or your life—if I wanted to."

Elena's hand trembled for a fraction of a second, but she forced herself to maintain her grip as she began to clean the wound with iodine. She looked up, meeting his terrifying, soul-stripping gaze with a wall of pure ice.

"I have five other patients waiting in the ER, Mr. Vance," she said coldly, keeping her voice completely professional. "If you are unhappy with my care, you are free to request another student. Otherwise, keep still so I can suture this. I don't have time for fairy tales."

Gabriel stared at her, utterly mesmerized. Anyone else in the city would be on their knees pleading for mercy if he threatened them. But this girl—exhausted, wearing oversized scrubs, with dark circles under her eyes—was standing her ground and treating him like an annoying medical inconvenience.

"Suture it then, Doctor," Gabriel whispered, a profound, consuming obsession taking root deep in his chest. "But this conversation isn't over. Not by a long shot."

Elena silently began to stitch the wound, her mind racing. She had survived the encounter, but she knew the truth: the Don wasn't going to let this go.