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“Lucia…”
“Don’t.” I jam the key into the ignition. “Don’t contact me. Don’t come to my hospital. Don’t pay my patients’ bills. Stay away from me.”
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m sabotaging myself. Ten minutes ago, I convinced myself to use this man to find Matteo’s killers. Now he’s got my senses so frazzled with the kiss that all I can think about is running away for my own sanity.
I slam the car shut so suddenly that he flinches before spreading his arms in surprise.
“You really want me to stay away from you?”
“Yes.”
He pauses, his thumb tracing the doorframe before he steps back to give the car the berth I need to drive away.
As I peel out of the lot, I check the rearview mirror. He’s still standing where I shoved him, rubbing his chest with his hand.
Two blocks later, I pull over, my hands shaking too intensely for me to keep driving. My forehead drops to the steering wheel.
I kissed him.
I wanted to do more.
He’s a violent criminal. A man stitched from the same world that killed Matteo and hollowed out my family.
He shouldn’t inspire this much fervor and passion. In fact, I should hate him. I should be able to say the reason I stitched Marco Santori up with malice in every suture was because I loathe what he represents, not because I can’t even manage to uphold my Hippocratic oath around him.
The man is a cancer I must cut out quickly. I’m the kind of doctor who screams at a board member to get a child surgery. I don’t lose all my marbles at the sight of dark brown eyes.
That unsettles me more than the kiss. The hold he has over me—the unbelievable realization that for a moment, I wanted to push away the one person who might help me find justice for Matteo because I couldn’t manage my emotions around him—sits heavy in my throat.
I know without a doubt that the police were wrong to dismiss Matteo’s case as gang violence and my brother simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I can’t throw away the years of work it’s taken me to find those initials. Meeting Marco has given me a thread to pull regarding Matteo’s unsolved death
The thought of what comes next churns my stomach.
My phone rings, and I stare at the screen built into the dashboard. An unknown number. I tap the Bluetooth to answer the call hands-free.
Heavy breathing fills the car, and then a voice—electronic, distorted, and cold—crackles from the speakers. “Dr. Romano. What’s the relationship between you and Marco Santori?”
My spine stiffens.
“I have no business with Marco San… Wait, who are you?”
“A friend.” The voice pauses. “A friend who wants you to know that smart girls don’t get involved with Benedetti dogs.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Be smarter, Doc. You don’t want to end up like your brother.”
The line goes dead.
Before me, the quiet, unlit road stretches on, every shadow twisting and growing longer.
Is someone watching me?
My foot stomps on the gas, and I steer into the patchwork of rush-hour traffic to blend in.
I can’t shake the sinking suspicion that whatever I’ve stumbled into is bigger, bloodier, and far more personal than I ever imagined.
