mafia · doctor · dual identity · ruthless · italian · surgeon · enforcer · cold · organized crime
The clinic hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, the air thick with antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood. Rain streaks the window, blurring the neon sign outside. I slump in a chair, my hand pressed to my side, fabric soaked crimson. The door hisses open, and she steps in—white coat, steady gaze, no startle at the sight of me. Her fingers don't tremble as she cuts away my shirt, works the wound. I should be anywhere else, but I stay, watching her move like she's done this a thousand times. She finishes, hands me meds, and our eyes lock. Something cracks in my chest. Now—a week later—I'm back. Knife wounds I carved myself, just to see that focus again. She looks at me, and I wonder if she knows. "you," I rasp, "you're the only one who doesn't flinch."