Chapter One: The Assignment
1499 Words
The bullet entered at an angle—forty-five degrees, maybe a little lower. I noticed it before I even noticed the blood, and that was the problem with being a surgeon. Training took over before emotion could. You saw the damage first before grief.
But no amount of medical training could prepare you for operating on the man responsible for your father's death.
Dante Rossetti lay unconscious beneath the surgical lights while machines beeped around him. Three weeks ago, he ordered the hit. My dad died bleeding to death in a parking garage while he stood over him.
At least, that's what I believed for two years.
Now, he was bleeding on my table, and his life was in my hands. Anything I did now could make or break him.
"Talk to me, Conti." Marco's voice came through my earpiece. He was watching me from the observation room. I didn't answer.
My gloves were stained with blood as I reached deeper into the wound. Dante had taken a bullet near his temple. The swelling in his brain had been bad enough to require emergency surgery.
I was too busy looking at the man who destroyed my family. He should've looked terrifying. Instead, under the harsh operating lights, he looked strangely calm.
He had sharp cheekbones and dark hair. He had the kind of face that skincare magazines liked putting on their covers when they wanted to boost their sales.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not admiring him or anything.
People like him just don't look like monsters.
"Elena," Marco's voice got sharper. "Is he going to make it?"
I glanced down while holding up the scalpel. The femoral artery was pulsing steadily under his skin. Just one careless cut, and he'd bleed out in ninety seconds. It'll be over before anyone detects the mishap.
No one would question a surgeon in a trauma bay.
Accidents happen. Blood vessels rupture. The best doctors lose patients every day. This was a norm in every hospital.
I put the blade to his thigh, right above the artery.
"Don't do anything stupid," Marco warned.
I almost laughed.
Was this stupid? No, killing my dad's murderer wasn't stupid.
It felt overdue. Revenge doesn't pay twenty-five million dollars, and that was the real reason I was here.
Marco made me an offer I couldn't refuse.
Keep Dante alive, and find out where his hidden fortune is. It was fifty million, split in half, and that would be twenty-five million for me.
It would be enough to rebuild what Dante took from my family—the house, the debts, my mum's medical bills. It would make my dad's death mean something.
My hands trembled. Then his eyelids moved. The anesthesia was wearing off. He was waking up.
Fight or flight kicked in, and I quickly pulled the blade away and lowered it—like I'd never even thought about using it.
His eyes opened slowly. They were dark brown. They screamed confusion, and he did, in fact, look confused.
Several seconds passed, and he just stared at the ceiling, blinking like he couldn't figure out why the lights were so bright. Then his gaze drifted towards me.
"Where..." His voice was rough.
He stared at me like I was a stranger. Like we'd never even met. Like he hadn't stood in my dad's house three weeks ago, smiling while giving the order.
"You're in the hospital," I said. My voice was calm and professional. It's the voice I use for patients and nervous families in waiting rooms.
"You suffered a gunshot wound to the head, and that resulted in a swelling in your brain. There's no need to worry, Mr. Rosetti. The surgery went well," I reassured him.
"I don't..." He frowned slightly, then lifted one hand to his temple and winced when his fingers touched the slightly red bandage.
"I don't remember," he managed to say.
"That's completely normal, Mr. Rosetti. The trauma is caused by memory loss. It could come back in days or weeks," I explained. " Some patients recover quickly while others take longer."
"And if I don't?" he asked.
"In worse-case scenarios, never."
I watched his face carefully, looking for any sign of recognition. Any flicker of emotion that meant he knew who I was. There was nothing, unfortunately. Just confusion. Just fear that he was trying so hard to hide.
"Who are you?" he asked again.
"Elena." "I'm your nurse, sir," I replied curtly.
He repeated my name quietly, like he was testing the sound of it.
"Do I know you?"
"No. We've never met."
The lie came easily, as I'd been lying to men like him my entire life.
He stared at me for a long time, and it made me very uncomfortable, so I stared right back at him. Most men look away first. They're taught not to hold a woman's gaze.
But Dante Rossetti wasn't most men. Even injured, half-drugged, and weak from surgery, he had presence. The kind of charisma that made people want to listen to him while he spoke.
"Was I a good man?" He asked.
The question caught me off guard. I'd expected demands. Orders.
The arrogant entitlement of a man who's never been told no.
Not this. Not a soft question whispered like a prayer.
"Was I good?" He repeated it. "I need to know."
My dad's face flashed through my mind. I thought about his body and the way his blood looked black under the parking garage lights. I thought about the morgue and my mom's screams when the police showed up at our door.
I thought about the twenty-five million dollars waiting for me if I played this right.
I swallowed hard.
"I don't know you," I said carefully. "My job is to keep you alive."
Something shifted in his expression. Was it disappointment? Relief, maybe. Then he closed his eyes.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For saving my life."
The words settled uncomfortably in my chest.
He didn't know who I was. He had no idea that the woman standing over his bed had almost let him die—had almost killed him herself. He had no idea that I wasn't his nurse.
That I was a surgeon who extracts information from targets.
That his own brother had hired me to drain his memory like a bank account because I knew how to stay "close" unnoticed. He had no idea that I was his enemy, and somehow, that made everything worse.
"I'll be back to check on you in an hour," I said. "You should rest." I walked out of the room before he could answer.
...
Marco was waiting in the hallway in a gray suit that probably cost more than my monthly salary. His smile was sharp.
"Well done," he said quietly.
"I almost killed him," I blurted out.
"But you didn't."
"Because you're paying me."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That's why I hired you, Conti. You're practical."
I wanted to punch him square in the face. Instead, I pulled off my gloves and dropped them in the biohazard bin.
"His memory might never return," I stated.
"It might, and when it does, he'll go straight to the money. You just need to be there when it happens," he replied.
"You want me to stay close to him? You know I don't want to do that, Marco."
"I want him to trust you."
Marco and I looked back at Dante's room through the glass window, and we could see him lying still.
"If he falls in love with you along the way, even better."
I was so fixated on Dante that I didn't hear what Marco said. His eyes were closed, and I could tell he was breathing slowly. He looked vulnerable. He looked human.
"How long do I have?" I asked.
"Two weeks. After that, I'll find another way."
That was it. That was the plan. I had two weeks to seduce my dad's killer. Two weeks to pretend I didn't hate him.
Two weeks to keep my hands steady while I cut him piece by piece.
"I'll need access to his quarters," I said eventually. "Journals, recordings. Basically anything that might trigger his memory."
Marco nodded.
"I'll make it happen."
He walked away leaving me alone in the fluorescent hallway.
I pulled out my phone and stared at the lock screen photo. My dad had his arm around my shoulders, both of us smiling.
"I'm going to make this right, Dad," I whispered with teary eyes. "I'm going to take everything from him." Tears streamed down my face. "Just like he took everything from us."
Even as I said that, I felt weak.
Because despite everything, despite the hatred and the grief and the years spent imagining Dante Rossetti dead—I could still hear his voice: Thank you for saving my life.
Somewhere deep in my chest, in a place I didn't want to admit existed, something inside me cracked.
- Writer
