Hel & Veritas

The Meeting

"Fanculo!"

Italian.

Emerald Green Eyes. That was the only thing Xenia registered clearly in the bright operating theater, because a plain mask hid the rest of her face. Standing where the light was dim, the rest of her remained a mystery. When she spoke, her voice cutting through the sterile silence, his initial instinct was to fire her then and there. Twelve years as a surgeon had ingrained in him a strict code of silence in the OT, a rule his numerous assistant surgeons had always adhered to, even when a patient's life hung precariously in the balance.

He had, in fact, dismissed thirteen ignorant newbie surgeons who had dared to disregard minute details that could mean the difference between life and death. Yet, the sheer confidence radiating from this woman's voice, the straightness of her shoulders, the unwavering lift of her chin, spoke volumes. There was a conviction in her words, a fire in her emerald eyes, that conveyed the seriousness with which she approached her job. Immediately after the surgery, he had called Dr. Brevinska, requesting her file. The data he saw left him genuinely impressed.

Fiorenza.

The name was new to him. Beautiful, unique. It rolled off his tongue like a taste of sweet nectar.

And she was only twenty-two? In all his years, he had never encountered someone who had cleared their medical entrance exams before the age of nineteen.

Curiosity piqued, he instructed Vladlen, his ever-efficient second-in-command, to gather every piece of information available about her and deliver it within the hour. The soft chime of the intercom in his private washroom signaled her arrival in his office. After quickly washing up, he exited and locked the door behind him. When he turned and his eyes met hers, it felt as if his breath had hitched in his throat, stealing the air from his lungs.

Fuck.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. As a teenager, he had once asked his father how he had known his mother, Aleksandra, was "the one." His father had simply smiled, a wistful, reminiscent expression softening his usually stern features. "When I first saw Aleksandra," he had said, his voice laced with a fondness that always surprised outsiders, "my car accidentally bumped her scooter. When I tried to apologize, she simply scratched my headlight, gave me this sweet, defiant smile, kissed the glass, and rode off. The fire in her eyes, her unwavering confidence, her no-nonsense attitude… It was like a breath of fresh air in a world that often tried to stifle women's true nature. That was the moment, the very moment I fell in love with her and knew I had to make her mine. And your mama," he had chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, "she certainly didn't make it easy for me. But I wouldn't have had it any other way."

He remembered how the world saw his father as a ruthless beast, a man to be feared. But he, his only son, knew the truth: in front of his wife, that same man had been putty in her hands, a love-struck puppy. Babushka Katrina always joked that he had inherited that particular trait from Dedushka Demitri. He had long resigned himself to the possibility that finding that kind of incandescent love was an impossibility for him. But looking at this young woman standing before him, his heart was suddenly galloping like a wild stallion, his palms inexplicably sweaty.

He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the sudden silence, and her attention snapped to him. He moved towards his imposing chair behind the large desk, settling into it, his gaze intent on the intriguing woman before him, wanting to absorb every detail.

He could see the subtle tremor in her hands, the slight tension in her shoulders, the almost imperceptible clench of her jaw – nerves, carefully masked by a determined posture. Her face was undeniably beautiful. Dark, luscious, chocolate brown hair that he felt an almost primal urge to run his fingers through… adorably chubby cheeks that he imagined would feel incredibly soft beneath his palms when he finally shared his first kiss with her, his lips meshing with her own, undoubtedly red ones, leaving a smudge of evidence on his face that he would wear like a badge of honor.

And then his gaze drifted lower, and he had to grip the armrests of his chair until the veins in his hands threatened to bulge. Her body… her body was a masterpiece, a landscape he instinctively knew was created to be caressed by him until his very last breath. He could envision her fitting perfectly into his hands, the gentle curves and soft fullness of her pear-shaped figure… love handles, he thought with a possessive thrill. A vivid image flashed through his mind: her naked body straddling his lap, his hands tracing every contour as he kissed her slowly, deeply. The rush of blood to his groin was immediate and undeniable, his nine-and-a-half inches of hard c**k throbbing with a sudden, fierce desire for the woman sitting just a few feet away, waiting for him. Being a virgin at his age was practically unheard of in the modern world, but growing up, he had always held onto the ideal of the love his parents had shared. After their brutal deaths, he had buried himself in the demanding duality of ruling the Bratva and pursuing his relentless career in the medical field. After crossing thirty-five, he had all but given up on the notion of finding a love that mirrored his parents’. The few dates his babushkas had insisted on had been disastrous, the women clearly more interested in his bank balance or his bed. One had even tried to drug him, a clumsy attempt at exploitation thwarted just in time by Vladlen. His revenge had been swift and brutal, a dark echo of the world he inhabited outside the sterile walls of his hospitals.

He cleared his throat again, a deliberate act to banish the inappropriate, all-consuming thoughts that had taken hold. He needed to have a civil conversation with her, for once. “Doctor Angelo,” he began, his voice low and steady, betraying none of the internal turmoil. “You earned your degree from our Paris branch, yet you chose to begin your career here in New York. Was there a specific reason for that?” He watched her intently, observing every subtle flicker of expression on her face. Her emerald eyes met his, and she cleared her throat before answering, her posture regaining its earlier confidence. “New York offered the opportunity to learn from some of the most renowned neurosurgeons in the world. My intention is to gain significant experience here for a couple of years before returning to Paris to continue my practice.” He didn’t like her answer. Now that he had seen her, felt this unexpected, visceral pull, the thought of her leaving was unbearable. But then he noticed the faintest blush dusting her cheeks, a subtle warmth that didn’t go unnoticed. A very faint smirk touched his lips, and her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. So, the fire he had glimpsed in the OT wasn’t entirely one-sided.

He nodded slowly, a new intensity in his gaze, before asking the question that had been replaying in his mind since the tense moment in the operating theater. “Dr. Angelo, you could have chosen to remain silent, to ignore the mistake made by the nurse. Why did you risk your career on your very first day?” She took a deep breath, her chin lifting slightly, a spark of unwavering conviction in her eyes. “Until a patient is no longer breathing, until their heart ceases to beat, even if it’s just the faintest pulse, our duty is to dedicate ourselves fully to saving them. At that moment, nothing felt more important to me. I have no regrets for what I did, Dr. Mikhailov.” Her voice was firm, resolute.

Years of carefully cultivated control helped him mask his immediate reaction, but a fierce, possessive pride swelled within him.

Ты бы так гордилась, мама. [You would be so proud, Mom.]

He nodded again, a curt, almost dismissive gesture that belied the tumultuous emotions churning inside him. “Very well, Dr. Angelo. You may leave.” He had to dismiss her, had to create distance before he succumbed to the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her until neither of them could breathe. She offered a polite, professional smile and stood, her small stature somehow amplifying the unexpected impact she had had on him. So tiny, moy tsvetok, he thought, the possessive endearment slipping into his native tongue unbidden. “Thank you for understanding, Dr. Mikhailov. Have a nice day ahead,” she greeted him before turning to walk towards the door. He had to physically suppress a groan as his gaze lingered on the tempting sway of her hips and the delectable curve of her ass, a vision of his hands s******g that very flesh red flashing through his mind.

After she left, the detailed file Vladlen had compiled arrived in his inbox. He decided to ingrain everything about her present on her file in the confinement of his bedroom.