Chapter 2
She threw herself backward as the reinforced glass blew inward, showering the reception area in glittering, deadly confetti. A boot connected with the door frame. Two men stepped into the clinic — heavy leather jackets, hoods low, faces in shadow. One carried a crowbar. The other had a pistol, silencer attached, the barrel obscenely long.
“Where is he?”
Iris was already low behind the counter, her hand dropping to the shelf where she kept the taser. “Where is who? The register’s open. Take what’s in it.”
“Don’t play stupid.” The crowbar man swept a display of flea medication off the counter. Plastic bottles clattered across the linoleum. “The guy whobled all over your stoop three nights ago. We know he came here.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs in a dull, rhythmic ache. She didn’t panic. Panic got you killed.
“A guy knocked. He was bleeding. I told him to go to the hospital and he left.”
“Liar.” The gunman stepped around the counter. He didn’t aim at her chest. He aimed at her knee — very deliberately. “We checked every hospital in the city. He didn’t show.”
“I’m a vet.” Her voice didn’t shake. “I fix dogs. If you want a dog fixed, I can help. Otherwise, get out.”
He laughed — a short, ugly sound. He raised his foot to kick her.
He never made contact.
From the dark hallway leading to the kennels, a shadow moved. Fast. Silent. Absolute. A hand clamped over the gunman’s mouth and jerked his head back with a sickening crack. The gun discharged — a muffled pop that sent a bullet into the ceiling tiles. Before the crowbar man could turn, a blade caught the dim light. It slid seamlessly between his ribs under his arm. He let out a wet gasp, the crowbar slipping from his fingers to clatter against the floor, and he slid slowly down.
Declan stepped out of the hallway shadows, letting the dying man settle. Dark clothing this time — a heavy peacoat over a black turtleneck. His skin no longer carried that gray pallor of imminent death, but he moved with a stiff, careful rigidity that told her hisstitches were still holding by discipline rather than healing.
He wiped the blade on the dead man’s shoulder. His face was entirely impassive.
Iris stood up slowly. She looked at the two bodies bleeding onto her clean floor. She didn’t scream. She didn’t faint. She felt a cold, hard knot of fury tighten in her stomach.
“I mopped an hour ago.”
The corner of Declan’s mouth twitched — a micro-expression that might have been amusement if his eyes weren’t so completely dead.
“They were tracking my blood trail. Took them a few days to narrow the street.”
“You led them here.” She stepped around the counter, stepping over the crowbar. “You put a target on my back.”
“I put a target on my back.” He tucked the knife away with the ease of long habit. “You just happen to be standing behind me.”
“I am a civilian.” The angerbled into her voice for the first time. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t care who you are. Get these bodies out of my clinic and never come back.”
He stepped closer. He didn’t loom. But his presence compressed the oxygen in the room.
“You think it ends here? They know you helped me. They know my name, which means they know I don’t leave loose ends.” He held her gaze. “You know my face. You have my DNA in your medical waste bin. You have my money in your safe.”
He bent, grabbed the dead gunman’s collar, and hauled the body toward the shattered door with a grunt — his face tightening as the strain pulled at his stitches. He dragged the second body out onto the rain-slicked pavement. A dark SUV had pulled up, headlights off. Two men climbed out silently and began loading the bodies into the trunk.
“You’re not a civilian anymore, Iris. You’re an accomplice.”
She froze. “How do you know my name?”
“I make it a point to know the name of the person holding a scalpel over my liver.” He didn’t look back. “Pack a bag.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pack a bag.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Declan stopped at the door. He turned. The neon sign caught the hard planes of his face — all shadow and certainty.
“Two choices. You stay here — in four hours the men who sent these two come looking for them. They won’t ask questions. They’ll burn this place down with you inside.” He stepped back into the clinic, stopping inches from her. The smell of cold rain and blood clung to him. “Or you get in the car. I protect what’s mine. And right now you’re the only doctor I trust not to kill me in my sleep.”
Iris looked at the shattered glass. The smear of blood on the floor. The SUV idling at the curb like a hearse.
She was a cynical woman. She knew when a trap had already sprung.
“Give me five minutes.”
The ride was suffocatingly silent. The gritty streets of the south end gave way to the sleek towering glass of the financial district. Declan sat beside her in the back seat, radiating a quiet, oppressive heat
, not speaking. The two men in front felt less like bodyguards and more like wardens.
They pulled into an underground garage beneath a luxury high-rise. The transition from the car to the private elevator was seamless — an orchestrated movement of men practiced at hiding in plain sight. The doors opened directly into a penthouse.
Iris stepped out, her battered duffel clutched in one hand. Vast. Sterile. Painfully expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city glittering like cold diamonds in the dark. Black leather, brushed steel, not a single personal touch. It didn’t look like a home. It looked like a very expensive waiting room.
“Rocco will show you to your room.” Declan shrugged out of his wet coat. “Don’t try to leave. The elevators require biometric scans. The stairwell doors lock from the outside.”
Iris dropped her bag on the pristine hardwood. It landed with a heavy, disrespectful thud.
“I’m a hostage, then.”
He stopped halfway across the living room. Turned slowly. “You’re a guest. A very well-protected guest.”
“Guests can leave.”
“Guests who leave right now get shot in the head by the Costa family.” He poured himself a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. “I killed the boss’s nephew three nights ago — the man who shot me. His people are sweeping the city. You are here because if you are out there, you are dead.”
The name settled over her like a suffocating blanket. The Costas. They weren’t street thugs. They owned the judges, the docks, the police unions.
“Who are you?” Her voice was tight. “You’re not just a hitman. Hitmen don’t live in penthouses.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He walked to the massive window, looking out over the city he was currently tearing apart.
“My name is Declan Rosi. I run the north side. The Costas run the south.” A pause. “I’m taking the south.”
Iris let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a mob boss, and I’m currently standing in the headquarters of a turf war.”
“You’re standing in a fortress.” He turned. “You will be safe here.”
“I want my life back.” She took a step toward him, fear dissolving rapidly into indignant rage. Years of building the clinic, paying off her debts, keeping her head down. “I patched you up. I didn’t sign up to be collateral damage. Send me away. Out of state. I’ll disappear.”
“No.”
The word was a door slamming shut. She marched across the room and stopped a few feet from him, tilting her head back to meet his eyes.
“You don’t get to dictate my life. I saved yours.”
“And that is exactly why you aren’t leaving.” He set his glass down with a sharp clack and closed the distance, moving smooth despite his injury. She held her ground. Her breath hitched as he boxed her against the window, his broad chest blocking her exit. He didn’t touch her — but his physical dominance was absolute.
“You think you can just walk away from this?” His voice dropped to a low murmur that vibrated in the quiet room. “You touched my blood. You saw me at my weakest and you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run. Women in my world scream or they scheme. You just stitched me up and charged me an exorbitant fee.”
“I’m a pragmatist,” she said. Her voice shook slightly, betraying her.
“You’re an anomaly.” His knuckles brushed her jawline — impossibly light for a man who had killed two people less than an hour ago. She pulled her head back.
“Don’t.”
His hand dropped, resting heavily on the glass beside her head. He leaned in. Expensive bourbon and lingering violence.
“I know what you’re feeling. You feel trapped. Your life has been hijacked. You’re angry and scared.”
“I’m not scared of you,” she lied.
“You should be,” he said simply.
He stepped closer, crowding her against the glass. His thumb pressed gently against the corner of her mouth, catching a tear she hadn’t realized she’d shed. She stared at the gun at his waistband — still warm from the lives it had taken — then up at his face.
“It’ll hurt,” he said, his voice a low, rough rasp. “But I won’t stop.”
She froze.
He wasn’t talking about the war. He wasn’t talking about the men hunting them. He was talking about this — about her. He was warning her that he intended to dismantle her life piece by piece until the only thing she had left to hold was him. A promise of destruction dressed as salvation.
May you like
He stepped back, leaving her cold against the glass.
“Rocco will show you to your room.” He picked up his glass and walked away. “Get some sleep, Doc. The war starts tomorrow.”
