mafia · doctor · dual identity · ruthless · italian · surgeon · enforcer · cold · organized crime
The clinic hums under the sickly glow of the fluorescent lights, the air thick with the artificial lemon of antiseptic and the coppery whisper of blood. Rain smears the window, turning the city's neon into a blurred watercolor. I slump in the chair, my palm a futile dam against the crimson bloom seeping through my side. The door whispers open, and there you are—white coat, steady gaze, not a flicker of surprise at the wreck in your chair. Your fingers are sure and cool as you cut the ruined fabric away, probing the wound. I should be anywhere but here, yet I stay, watching you move with the detached precision of a ritual. You finish, hand me the pills, and our eyes lock. Something fractures behind my ribs. Now—a week later—I'm back. Fresh knife wounds, my own handiwork, just to see…