The Devil's Doctor

The Bullet

She sat on the edge of the bed and put her head in her hands.

"Stupid," she whispered to herself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."

A while later, footsteps approached the holding cell.

Yara looked up. Her eyes were dry now, but her face was still pale.

The door unlocked. Lucia filled the doorway, her expression commanding.

"Come," she said. "The boss needs you."

Yara stood. "I thought you suspected me."

"We do. But you're a doctor." She grabbed her arm. "The mafia doctor arrived ten minutes ago."

Yara blinked. "Then why do you need me?"

Lucia didn't answer. She just pulled her down the gravel path, toward the main villa.

"Take her to the medical room," Enzo ordered as soon as they arrived.

Yara was grabbed by the elbow and steered down a hallway. Past a library. Past a staircase. Past a door that stood slightly ajar, revealing a room with a medical setup.

Don't look. Don't remember. Don't let them see you're scared.

Inside, the medical room had transformed.

A man in his fifties stood by the exam table, gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, a leather bag open beside him. He was packing surgical tools. Preparing sutures.

"The family doctor," Lucia muttered. "Old family. Trusted."

Yara frowned. "Then let him work."

"The boss refused him."

"What?"

Before Lucia could answer, the door to the medical room opened. One of Dante's soldiers stepped out, his face tight.

"He won't let anyone touch him," the soldier said. "He keeps asking for the woman."

Lucia cursed under her breath. She shoved Yara forward.

"Congratulations," she said. "You're his doctor now."

The other doctor looked up at Yara. His eyes narrowed.

"You're not family," he said.

"I'm not anything," Yara replied. "But he asked for me."

He left without another word.

Yara stood alone in the doorway, her first aid kit still in her hand.

Dante Marchetti lay on the exam table. Blood soaked through his shirt. His fist was clenched. His eyes were closed.

When he heard her footsteps, they opened.

"Dottorina," he said weakly. "Took you long enough."

"You had a doctor," Yara said. "Experienced. Trusted."

"I didn't want him."

"You don't even know me."

"I like to keep my friends close and enemies closer." His eyes found hers.

She set her first aid kit down.

"Then let me work," she said.

Dante nodded.

"Work," he ordered, closing his eyes.

"I work when I have information." Yara laid out her supplies. "What exactly happened to him?"

"Gunfight. Ambush. He took two rounds."

"Where?"

"Left shoulder. Left side."

Yara's hands moved automatically, checking her sutures, her antiseptic, her gauze. "Is he on any medication? Blood thinners? Allergies?"

"How should I know?"

"Then get someone who does or wake him up." She looked up at Lucia. "I can't treat him if I don't know what I'm working with. A bad reaction kills him faster than the bullets."

Lucia stared at her.

Yara turned back to her kit and waited.

They tapped Dante lightly.

He was fully conscious now. His eyes tracked the room, settling on his men. His fist was clenched against the pain, but he didn't make a sound.

Tough, Yara thought.

"Yes doctor," he said.

"Are you on any medication? Blood thinners?." She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. "I need to know what I'm working with."

"No, I'm not. Be fast! I can't wait to put a bullet in your skull." His voice was flat.

Yara's hands paused over her kit. She looked at him. At the bruise blooming across his cheekbone. At the blood soaking through his shirt. At the way his fingers curled into fists, like he was ready to fight even now.

"You'd kill your only chance at surviving the night?" she asked.

He smiled. "I've survived worse."

"I doubt that." She stepped toward him. "Your blood loss is significant. Your pulse is unstable. If I had to guess, you've got at least one bullet still inside you. Neither of us has time for posturing."

Silence.

Lucia reached for her gun.

Dante held up a hand. Just a small gesture. But she stopped.

"Let her work," he said.

Yara cut away his shirt.

She'd seen hundreds of male torsos in the OR. Athletes. Laborers. Old men with papery skin. She'd never seen one like his.

Muscle. Scar tissue. Tattoos. A map of violence written across every inch of him. The bullet wound in his shoulder was ugly, entry and exit, thank God, but the one in his side was still lodged. She could see the dark hole. The way the skin around it had already begun to discolor.

"Infection risk is high," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I need to remove the bullet. Do you have surgical tools?"

"Top drawer." Lucia pointed.

Yara opened it. Found a basic surgical kit. Scalpel. Forceps. Needle driver. Sterile drapes.

They've done this before, she realized. This isn't their first time patching him up.

She cleaned the wound. Poured antiseptic. Dante didn't flinch. Didn't make a sound.

"You're going to feel pressure," she said.

"I know what a bullet removal feels like."

"Then you know I should numb you first."

"Don't bother."

Yara looked up at him. He was watching her again. Those dark eyes.

"Anesthesia," she said flatly. "I'm using it. I don't work on screaming patients."

He smiled again. "Bossy."

"Doctor."

She injected the local anesthetic. His fist tightened, the first sign of pain he'd shown. But he didn't look away from her. Not once.

He's testing me, she realized. Watching to see if I'll c***k.

She didn't.

The bullet was deep. Two inches into the muscle wall. She worked with steady hands, scalpel, forceps, gentle traction. Blood welled up. She blotted it. Kept going.

"You're good at this," Dante said quietly.

"I've had practice."

"Where?"

"Hospitals. Operating rooms. Places where people want to live."

"Unlike here?"

Yara didn't answer. She was focused on the bullet. On the way the forceps gripped the edge of it. On the slow, careful pull.

It came free with a wet sound.

She dropped it into a metal tray. Clink.

Two men in the room exhaled.

Dante didn't.

"You're not afraid of me," he said.

Yara began suturing the wound. Stitch by stitch. Neat. Precise. "I'm terrified of you," she admitted. "But I'm more afraid of losing a patient."

"And when I let you go?"

"You won't let me go." She tied off the last suture. "I've seen your face. Your men's faces. This house. I know too much."

"So do you have a death wish?"

"No." She peeled off her gloves. "I have a Hippocratic oath. And very bad luck."

Dante Marchetti smiled.

It was small but it transformed his face, making him look almost human.

"You're interesting," he said. "I don't meet interesting people often."

"Most of them probably run the other way."

"They do. But you didn't." His eyes held hers. "You stopped on a dark highway to save a stranger. That's either brave or stupid."

"Maybe both."

"Maybe." He shifted on the table. Winced. "You'll stay here tonight. Tomorrow, we'll discuss your future."

"My future is driving far away from here."

"That's your past." He closed his eyes. "Your future is mine now."