Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Who Refused to Die
“Do not.”
Dominic Varga’s voice emerged as little more than a whisper, yet it carried enough authority to make both bodyguards freeze.
Mave Collins felt his fingers tighten around her wrist.
For one terrible second, she thought he intended to pull her hand away from the wound. If he did, the pressure she had maintained against his damaged artery would disappear, and the blood would begin flowing again.
“Let go of me,” she ordered.
His dark eyes remained fixed on hers.
“Do not touch my phone.”
Mave blinked.
Of all the things she had expected a dying man to say, that had not been one of them.
“You are bleeding to death in a roadside diner, and you are worried about your phone?”
“Encrypted.”
“Wonderful. Then it can die with you.”
She twisted her wrist sharply. His grip loosened, whether from exhaustion or surprise, she could not tell.
“Listen carefully, Mr. Varga. I have a five-year-old son sleeping in the office behind that kitchen. I have three unpaid utility bills in my purse, a car that sounds like a lawn mower, and a landlord who thinks fixing the heating system is an optional hobby. I do not have time to negotiate with a man who is leaking blood onto my furniture.”
One of the bodyguards stared at her.
The other looked as though he had forgotten how to breathe.
Dominic's mouth moved slightly.
It might have been the beginning of a smile.
It might have been pain.
“Your furniture,” he repeated.
“Yes. And if you ruin the upholstery, I will add the replacement cost to your medical bill.”
His eyelids fluttered.
“Your medical qualifications?”
“Not relevant.”
“They are relevant to me.”
“Then ask me when you are no longer trying to die.”
Mave returned her attention to the wound.
Her fingers had begun to cramp. Maintaining direct pressure against an injured vessel was difficult under the best circumstances, and this was far from the best. She needed proper medical equipment, a surgeon, blood products, and a hospital capable of managing the kind of catastrophic injury Dominic had suffered.
She had none of those things.
What she had was a kitchen apron, a roll of duct tape, two terrified criminals, and a dying man whose reputation could probably empty an entire courtroom.
She leaned toward the older bodyguard.
“What's your name?”
“Rafe.”
“Rafe, I need a clean towel, every clean cloth you can find, and the first-aid kit from your vehicle. Bring everything here. Then call your doctor again and tell him the patient has a penetrating injury near the clavicle with severe bleeding. Tell him we need immediate surgical intervention.”
Rafe nodded.
“And no more guns pointed at me.”
He glanced at the pistol in his hand.
For the first time since entering the diner, embarrassment crossed his face.
He lowered it and slipped it into his waistband.
“Understood.”
“Good. Move.”
Rafe disappeared through the front door.
The younger bodyguard remained beside the booth. He was perhaps thirty, with short blond hair and a thin scar running from his ear toward his jaw. His hands were still covered in blood.
“His name is Elias,” Dominic murmured.
Mave looked at him.
“What?”
“The boy. His name is Elias. He looks as if he might faint, and you keep calling him the younger bodyguard.”
Elias straightened.
“I am not going to faint.”
“Then stop looking at the floor.”
Dominic's voice was fading, but the command still carried weight.
Elias lifted his head.
Mave almost laughed.
The man was losing blood at an alarming rate and still had enough energy to supervise the emotional stability of his employees.
“Elias,” she said, “go into the kitchen and bring me a basin of warm water, a clean towel, and the heavy scissors in the top drawer beside the stove. Do not touch anything else.”
He hesitated.
“What if someone comes in?”
“The door is locked.”
“What if—”
“Elias.”
Dominic barely moved his head.
The young man immediately left.
Mave shook her head.
“Do all your employees obey you this quickly?”
“Yes.”
“Must be convenient.”
“It is.”
“Must also be lonely.”
Something changed in his expression.
It was small, almost invisible, but she saw it.
Then his eyes rolled backward.
“Dominic?”
His body went slack.
“Dominic!”
She pressed harder.
His pulse was becoming difficult to feel. His skin was cold despite the humid warmth of the diner, and the shallow movements of his chest had slowed.
Mave had spent years around medical emergencies. She knew the difference between a patient who was frightened and one whose body was beginning to shut down.
This was the second kind.
“Elias!”
The young bodyguard rushed back from the kitchen.
“Get over here. I need you to hold his shoulders steady.”
Elias obeyed.
Mave kept her hand against the wound while using her free arm to reposition the folded apron. She could not repair the damaged vessel, but she could try to maintain pressure and limit further blood loss until professional help arrived.
She had learned those principles years earlier, during a trauma training session at Mercy General. She had never imagined she would be using them in a diner with supplies intended for minor kitchen accidents.
“Is he going to live?” Elias asked.
“I don't know.”
“You have to know.”
“I don't.”
Her answer came out sharper than she intended.
She looked at him.
“I can keep trying. That is what I can promise you. If you want a guarantee, find someone who can reverse time.”
Elias swallowed.
Then he nodded and put both hands against Dominic's shoulders.
For the next several minutes, the diner seemed to shrink around them.
The refrigerator compressor stopped.
Rain struck the roof.
The neon sign buzzed above the windows.
Mave's entire world narrowed to the pressure beneath her fingers and the faint movements of Dominic's chest.
She thought of Toby.
He would wake soon if the noise continued. He would come searching for her, carrying the little stuffed dinosaur he insisted on taking everywhere, his brown hair sticking up in the back.
He would see the blood.
He would see the guns.
And he would ask why his mother was sitting on top of a strange man.
The thought nearly made her lose concentration.
Stay focused.
She had been telling herself those words for years.
When Toby's father disappeared before their son's first birthday, she had repeated them while holding a screaming infant in one arm and filling out employment applications with the other.
When the landlord threatened eviction, she had repeated them.
When Toby developed a respiratory infection and the pharmacy informed her that the medication cost more than she had in her checking account, she had repeated them.
Focus on what you can do.
Survive the next minute.
Then the next.
A pair of headlights swept across the windows.
The front door shook as someone tried the handle.
Mave's stomach tightened.
“Who is that?” she demanded.
Elias drew his weapon.
“Probably our driver.”
“Probably?”
He moved toward the window and lifted one corner of the blind.
A black SUV stood in the parking lot. A man in a dark coat was climbing out of the driver's seat, carrying a rectangular medical case.
Rafe appeared behind him.
“It's Dr. Bell,” Elias said. “He's here.”
Mave released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“Open the door.”
Elias hurried forward.
The newcomer entered with Rafe behind him.
Dr. Nathaniel Bell was in his early fifties, with silver hair, a narrow face, and the controlled movements of someone who had spent decades entering rooms where people were dying.
His eyes went first to Dominic.
Then to Mave.
Then to the blood covering her uniform.
“What happened?”
“Gunshot wound beneath the clavicle. Severe bleeding. Altered consciousness. He's deteriorating.”
Dr. Bell set down his medical case.
“Move aside.”
“I cannot release pressure.”
“Then tell me exactly where you are pressing.”
She did.
He examined the wound without disturbing her hand and his expression changed.
“Damn it.”
Mave watched him carefully.
“You can help him?”
“I can try.”
“That wasn't my question.”
His eyes lifted toward hers.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Dr. Bell opened his case.
“I have equipment in the vehicle. I need my assistant to bring it inside, and I need this man transported to a surgical facility immediately.”
“An ambulance?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if an ambulance is called, half the city will know Dominic Varga was shot before we reach the hospital.”
“That sounds like a problem for you, not me.”
“It becomes your problem if the wrong people arrive first.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Mave looked toward the windows.
She had spent years avoiding trouble. She had never borrowed money from dangerous people, never accepted gifts she could not repay, and never asked questions about customers who arrived at Hank's Diner with bruised knuckles and expensive watches.
But trouble had entered through the front door tonight.
It had bled across booth four.
And it had her hand trapped beneath its collarbone.
“Fine,” she said. “Tell me what you need.”
For the next twenty minutes, Dr. Bell worked beside her, stabilizing Dominic as best he could with the equipment available. Rafe and Elias followed instructions without argument. When Dominic regained consciousness, he attempted to sit up and was immediately ordered back down by three people.
He obeyed only when Mave leaned over him.
“Do you want to die in my diner?”
“No.”
“Then stop moving.”
His eyes settled on her face.
“Bossy.”
“Dead men don't get to complain.”
His mouth twitched.
Then Dr. Bell gave a sharp command, and everyone returned to work.
Eventually, the bleeding slowed enough for them to transfer Dominic onto a stretcher brought from the SUV. He remained dangerously pale, but his breathing had become more regular.
As the men prepared to carry him out, Mave stepped away from the booth.
Her legs trembled.
She looked down at herself.
Blood covered her uniform, her hands, and the front of her jeans. A dark smear stretched across one cheek. The floor looked as though someone had poured a bucket of red paint beneath the table.
The diner would need more than a mop.
Dominic stopped them before they reached the door.
“Wait.”
Dr. Bell frowned.
“You need surgery.”
“I know.”
“Then stop talking.”
Dominic ignored him and turned his head toward Mave.
“What is your name?”
She hesitated.
There was no reason to give him a false answer. He already knew too much about her, and the men surrounding him had seen her face.
“Mave Collins.”
“Do you have family?”
“Why?”
“Answer the question.”
“No.”
The lie came automatically.
She had Toby.
But she had learned that dangerous men often treated information like currency. The less Dominic knew about her son, the better.
He studied her for another moment.
“Someone will return to compensate you for the damage.”
“Don't bother.”
His brow furrowed.
“You have just spent twenty minutes trying to keep me alive.”
“And now I'm trying to get you out of my diner.”
“You don't want money?”
“I want you to leave.”
A strange silence followed.
Men like Dominic Varga were accustomed to people wanting things from them. Money. Protection. Favors. Influence.
Mave wanted the blood removed from her floor and the chance to get through the rest of her night without another gun being pointed at her.
Dominic appeared to find that difficult to understand.
He looked toward Rafe.
“Find out everything you can about Mave Collins.”
“No.”
The word escaped her before she could stop it.
Dominic turned back.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You don't get to investigate me because I helped you.”
“I'm ensuring your safety.”
“You brought armed men into my workplace. You nearly got blood on my only clean apron, and now you want to send strangers digging through my life. That's not safety. That's surveillance.”
Rafe's eyebrows rose.
Dr. Bell looked toward the ceiling as though asking for patience.
Dominic stared at her.
No one interrupted him.
Finally, he said, “You have no idea who I am.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
“Then you should understand why I cannot leave things to chance.”
Mave stepped closer.
“And you should understand that I didn't save your life so you could decide what happens to mine.”
For the first time that night, Dominic Varga appeared genuinely speechless.
She pointed toward the door.
“Go.”
He held her gaze for several seconds.
Then he gave Rafe a slight nod.
They carried him outside.
Before the door closed, Dominic looked back once.
Mave watched the black SUV disappear into the rain.
Only when its taillights vanished did she realize her hands were shaking so badly that she could barely close them.
She locked the door again.
Then she turned toward the kitchen.
“Toby?”
A small voice answered from the office.
“Mommy?”
Mave closed her eyes.
She had never been so relieved to hear a word in her life.
“I'm here, baby.”
Toby appeared in the doorway, dragging his stuffed dinosaur by one leg. His eyes moved from her face to her bloodstained uniform.
He frowned.
“Did you get hurt?”
Mave knelt immediately, ignoring the pain in her knees.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Then why are you red?”
She pulled him into her arms.
“Someone needed help.”
Toby considered this.
“Like when my dinosaur fell behind the couch?”
A broken laugh escaped her.
“Something like that.”
He wrapped his little arms around her neck.
“Did you fix him?”
Mave held him tightly.
“I think so.”
She did not know whether Dominic Varga would survive the night.
She did not know who had shot him or why his men had chosen her diner.
And she certainly did not know that, by sunrise, the man she had ordered out of booth four would begin dismantling an entire criminal network to discover who had put a bullet through his chest.
All Mave knew was that her son was safe in her arms.
For the moment, that was enough.
But across the city, beneath the white lights of a private surgical suite, Dominic Varga was already asking the question that would change both their lives.
“Who knew I was going to be at the docks tonight?”
No one answered.
Dominic turned his head toward Rafe.
“Find out.”
His voice was weak.
His eyes were not.
“And if anyone goes near that woman or her child, I want to know before they reach the door.”
Rafe nodded.
“Understood.”
Dominic closed his eyes as the anesthesiologist approached.
For the first time in years, he had encountered something he could neither purchase nor command.
A woman who had looked at him while his life drained away and refused to be impressed by his name.
May you like
He had no idea what to do with that.
And the uncertainty irritated him far more than the wound.
