The Mafia's Private Nurse

The metallic stench of copper hit Zara before the silhouette did. ‎She stepped over a pile of soaked trash bags behind the clinic, the 2:00 AM rain soaking through her scrub top. Exhaustion throbbed behind her eyes after a brutal 14-hour ER shift. All she wanted was to get to her tiny apartment, heat up some rice, and figure out how to pay the interest on her brother’s growing medical debt. ‎Then a heavy thud echoed against the damp brick wall. ‎A man was slumped beside the metal dumpster, clutching his left side. Blood was soaking through a bespoke dark suit jacket, pooling into the murky rainwater beneath him. ‎"Don't... touch me," he growled. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp laced with pure threat. ‎"Shut up," Zara snapped automatically. ‎Her nurse instincts bypassed her fear before her brain could stop her. She dropped her tote bag into the dirt, dropped to her knees, and unbuttoned his shirt without asking. ‎"Gunshot wound. Subcostal," she muttered, inspecting the torn flesh. "You're bleeding out." ‎She whipped out her medical shears and emergency gauze from her bag, applying heavy, deliberate pressure directly to the wound. ‎The man gritted his teeth, his abdominal muscles locking like iron under her hands. He didn't scream or whimper. Most men shot in the gut whimpered; this man just stared at her through the dark with lethal, pitch-black eyes that tracked her every move. ‎"You're fast with your hands, little nurse," he rasped, his chest heaving. ‎"And you're slow at dodging bullets," she retorted, pulling a pressure bandage tight with cold efficiency. "There. That keeps you alive for another twenty minutes. Call an ambulance." ‎Zara started to stand, but his hand shot out. ‎His grip locked around her wrist like a steel cuff—cold, unyielding, and terrifyingly strong for a dying man. ‎"No hospitals," he whispered, pulling her down until her nose was inches from his sharp jawline. "And you're not walking away. You saw my face." ‎Before she could reply, headlights flashed at the entrance of the narrow alley. ‎A black SUV turned the corner, its tires screeching against the wet pavement. The doors slid open, and two men in tailored dark suits stepped into the downpour, carrying heavy suppressed pistols. ‎"Mr. Vance!" one of the men called out, scanning the dark alleyway before spotting them. "We have the perimeter secured. We need to move now." ‎The bleeding man didn't let go of Zara's wrist. He hauled himself up using the dumpster for balance, dragging her right along with him. ‎"Bring her," he ordered coldly. ‎"Wait! Let go of me!" Zara yelled, thrashing against his grip. "I just saved your life!" ‎"Which makes you a target," the man said smoothly as his guards surrounded them. "If my enemies find out an ER nurse patched me up, they'll skin you alive to find out where I am. Get in the car." ‎Before she could scream for help, one of the guards shoved her into the leather back seat of the SUV, and the vehicle tore off into the rainy night. ‎Zara woke up to the heavy smell of polished mahogany, expensive leather, and fresh antiseptic. ‎She sat up abruptly on a plush velvet sofa, her heart hammering against her ribs. Bright sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, revealing a sprawling penthouse estate overlooking the city skyline. ‎"I wouldn't jump up so fast," a voice said from the open doorway. ‎A tall, broad-shouldered man in a sharp grey suit stood there, holding a glass of water. A visible holster bulged beneath his jacket. ‎"I'm Enzo," he said calmly. "You're in Mr. Vance's private residence." ‎"Dante Vance," she corrected, remembering the initials engraved on the expensive gold cufflinks she'd seen in the alley. "Where is he? And why am I being held hostage in a high-rise?" ‎"Because the men who shot him belong to a dangerous syndicate," Enzo replied. "They saw you helping him. If you step outside those front gates today, you're a dead woman. You stay here until the clean-up is handled." ‎Before Zara could curse at him, the double oak doors swung wide open. ‎Dante stepped into the living room. ‎He wore an unbuttoned black silk shirt, revealing thick white bandages wrapped snugly around his torso. Cleaned up, he was devastatingly handsome—hard jawline, sharp cheekbones, and an aura of absolute authority that made the room feel instantly smaller. ‎"You're awake," Dante said, his dark eyes appraising her as if she were a piece of property he'd just acquired. "Enzo told me you didn't cry when we threw you in the car." ‎"I was too busy making sure you didn't bleed out on my boots," Zara said, standing up to match his height, refusing to let her knees shake. "I saved your life. Now let me out of here." ‎Dante crossed the room, his heavy boots echoing on the hardwood floor until he was standing right in front of her, looming over her frame. ‎"You don't order me around in my own house, doctor." ‎"I'm a nurse," she snapped back, poking a finger directly against his uninjured shoulder. "And if you don't sit your arrogant self down right now, those stitches are going to burst and I'll have to sew you up all over again." ‎In the corner, Enzo visibly paled. Nobody touched Dante Vance like that. Nobody spoke to him like that. ‎Dante stared down at her finger on his shoulder, then up into her eyes. A long, dangerous silence stretched across the room—before a slow, dark smirk touched the corner of his lips. ‎"You've got a very big mouth, little nurse," he murmured. "I think I'll keep you around." ‎