The Devil's Doctor

The Good Samaritan

The bullet shattered the windshield three inches from Yara Hale’s face. Glass particles exploded into the car.

She screamed.

The car swerved. Her first aid kit slammed against the dashboard.

Keep driving. Keep driving. Keep driving.

Her breath came in short gasps and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel.

She had been driving for hours, fleeing from Campania toward Milan. She felt like a ghost. She had no name and no history now. She was just a girl running away from an arranged marriage to a mafia lord.

Behind her, the highway was filled with the sounds of war. She heard gunfire and the screech of tires. Yara hadn't meant to drive into a mafia warzone.

She had meant to disappear.

Four hours ago, Yara had been a top surgeon in Campania. She had walked out of the hospital for the last time.

She wasn't just a runaway; she was Dr. Yara, a cardiothoracic surgeon and the youngest fellow in the hospital's history. But her career ended when her father, Silas, arrived at her office.

"The Hale Group is in debt for a hundred million dollars," Silas had whispered. "The Marchetti Syndicate doesn't do payment plans. They do executions."

Yara had felt sick. "Father, how?"

"It doesn't matter how!" Silas roared, slamming his fist on the desk. "What matters is the price of their silence. There was an arrangement with their late grandfather. I spoke to the head of the Marchetti syndicate. He doesn't want the money. He wants to fulfill his grandfather's arrangement. A wife. You will marry Dante Marchetti”

Yara felt the room spinning. "You’re selling me to a crime lord? A hundred million?I haven't even seen his face."

He pushed a heavy document across the desk. The Marchetti seal, a crown wrapped in thorns, stared back at her.

"The engagement is tomorrow night," Silas said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The wedding is in three weeks. You move into his estate the moment the ring is on your finger.”

"I am begging you," Yara turned to her father, her voice cracking. She fell to her knees on the floor, grabbing his hand. "Sell the house. Sell the cars. I’ll do double shifts. I’ll do anything. Just don't give me to the mafia. I am a doctor, I won't survive the mafia world."

Her father shoved a gold pen toward her. His eyes were dead, focused only on his own survival. "Sign it. Now.”

Yara tosses the thick expensive marriage contract in the fireplace as soon as her father leaves. The papers burned, turning the name Dante Marchetti into a pile of ashes.

She left her white coat in her locker. She took only her personal first aid kit and three thousand dollars in cash.

She thought she had a way out.

Lorenzo.

She had gone to see Lorenzo, her boyfriend of two years. She had given him her heart and her savings. She was going to beg him to marry her so the Mafia couldn't claim her. She thought if they married quickly, the mafia contract wouldn't apply. She was desperate.

She drove to his apartment, the one she paid for, and let herself in with the key he'd given her.

The sound stopped her dead in her track.

A giggle.

Then Lorenzo's voice: "Sophie, stop, someone might…"

Yara rounded the corner.

They were on the couch. Lorenzo's shirt was unbuttoned. A blonde girl Sophie was straddling his lap, her red nails tangled in his hair. Her lips were still wet from his.

The world tilted.

"Yara." Lorenzo shoved Sophie off him. Stood up. His face full of annoyance. "You're supposed to be at work."

"The wedding," Yara heard herself say. Her voice didn't sound like hers. "The arrangement. I need you to marry me, today."

Lorenzo blinked. Turned to Sophie and laughed.

"Marry you?" He looked at Sophie again. She was smirking. "You think I'd marry you?"

Yara's heart cracked. "You said you loved me."

"I said a lot of things." He shrugged. "You were paying my bills, Yara. You think I'd be with you for love? Please."

Sophie slid off the couch. Circled Yara like a vulture. "Poor thing. She actually believed him."

"Stay away from me," Yara whispered.

"Or what? You'll cry on me?" Sophie laughed. "Lorenzo's been mine for years. You were just his ATM. Did you really think a man like him would settle for you?"

Yara looked at Sophie. At the ring on her finger. The ring she'd bought.

"Give it back," she said.

"What?"

"The ring. It's mine."

Sophie pulled it off. Tossed it at her feet. It bounced across the floor and landed near her sneakers.

"There," he said. "Now get out. Sophie and I have unfinished plans."

Yara didn't pick up the ring.

She turned. Walked out the door.

In the hallway, she leaned against the wall and pressed her hand to her mouth.

Two years. Two years of my life. My money. My hope.

And he was never mine at all.

She walked to her car. Got in and start the engine.

The car wasn't built for escaping the mafia. But it was all she had.

Now the car had a bullet in its windshield.

Yara looked in the rearview mirror.

The fight was shrinking in the distance. Two groups of black SUVs had been tearing each other apart on the highway. She had floored the gas, but a stray round had hit her anyway.

"I'm fine," she whispered. "No blood. Keep breathing."

The highway ahead was empty. No streetlights. Just the glow of her headlights cutting through.

And then she saw it.

A body.

Lying on the side of the road. Illuminated briefly by her high beams.

Yara's foot hit the brake.

No. Don't stop. You're running from the mafia. You can't afford any delays…

But her eyes had already catalogued the damage. Male. Early thirties. Dark suit, torn and bloody. One arm stretched toward the road, as if reaching for help that wouldn't come.

He wasn't moving.

He could be dead.

He's not your problem.

You took an oath.

Yara cursed under her breath, the way she did in the OR when a patient was crashing, and pulled over.

She grabbed her first aid kit from the passenger seat. Basic supplies. Sutures. Antiseptic. Bandages. Enough to stabilize a trauma patient until an ambulance arrived.

If an ambulance ever came to this godforsaken stretch of highway.

The man was twenty feet ahead. Facedown. Blood pooled beneath his torso, black in the darkness.

Yara approached slowly. "Hey. Can you hear me? I'm a doctor."

No response.

She knelt beside him. Her fingers found his neck, carotid pulse. Thready but present.

Alive. Barely.

She rolled him onto his back.

The air left her lungs.

Even beaten, bruised, with blood matting his dark hair and a gash splitting his eyebrow. Even then, he was incredibly handsome. Sharp jaw. Full lips parted slightly. Expensive suit.

Focus, Yara. He's a patient. Nothing else.

She reached for her first aid kit.

Suddenly, the man’s hand shot up. He pressed a gun to her temple.

"Who sent you?" he rasped.

His finger rested on the trigger. One pull. That's all it would take.