Chapter 1 Blood on my Hands
The fluorescent lights of Ospedale Sant'Angelo hummed their familiar midnight song as Aria Salvini signed off on the last patient chart. Two AM. Twelve hours straight, three successful surgeries, one miraculous save. Her hands ached, her eyes burned, but her record stayed spotless.
I am twenty-five years old. Youngest head of trauma surgery in the hospital's history. Highest success rate in Italy. Currently running on terrible coffee and pure spite.
She took another sip of the bitter hospital brew and grimaced. Sixteen years of medical training, countless awards, and she still couldn't figure out why hospital coffee tasted like battery acid mixed with broken dreams.
The ER had been quiet tonight. Broken arm from a drunk tourist who thought he could parkour across Roman rooftops. Kitchen burn that looked worse than it was. Elderly woman with chest pains that turned out to be severe indigestion. Nothing requiring her particular expertise. Nothing that made her pulse quicken with that electric thrill of a real challenge.
She gathered her designer bag, car keys, the medical journal she'd been ignoring for weeks and headed for the exit. Her apartment was twenty minutes away. Her bed was calling. Tomorrow she had consultations, surgeries, and a departmental meeting she already dreaded. Hospital politics bored her. She was a surgeon, not a goddamn politician.
The automatic doors to her left exploded open with a crash that made her heart jump.
Four men in black stormed through like a tactical unit, carrying a fifth man between them. Even from across the corridor, Aria could see the blood. So much blood. It soaked through his shirt in dark, spreading stains, dripping onto the pristine white floor in steady drops that seemed obscenely loud.
The man they carried was massive. Easily six-four, built like he'd been carved from violence. Intricate tattoos snaked up his arms, disappeared under his blood-soaked collar. His face was deathly pale, lips gray, breathing shallow.
He was dying. She could see it from here.
The ER froze. Nurses stopped mid-step. Security's hand moved toward his radio. The night receptionist went white as snow.
Because the four men weren't just worried civilians. They were armed. Gun handles visible in waistbands. Shoulder holsters create distinct lines under expensive suits.
Mafia business. Gang violence. The kind of situation that got doctors killed and careers destroyed.
The oldest one maybe fifty, face covered in scars that looked like they'd lost arguments with knives locked eyes with Aria. Didn't ask. Didn't plead. Simply stated fact.
"You. Doctor. Save him. Now."
Every instinct screamed danger. Hospital policy required reporting gunshot wounds immediately. Getting involved violated a dozen regulations. The smart choice, the safe choice, was to call security and walk away.
But Aria wasn't looking at the armed men anymore.
She was looking at the dying man.
Two gunshot wounds, one high left chest, one lower right ribs. Massive blood loss based on volume and the pallor of his skin. Breathing rapid and shallow, suggesting pneumothorax or hemothorax. Pulse visible in his neck, thready and weak. Blood pressure probably tanking. Internal bleeding is almost certain.
He had twenty minutes. Maybe thirty if he was lucky.
Twenty minutes before he bled out and died on her emergency room floor.
Her medical oath rose up like a tidal wave, drowning logic. Sixteen years learning to save people. Best trauma surgeon in the city. Hands that could repair damage others couldn't even diagnose.
Right now, none of the other bullshit mattered. Right now, a human was dying, and she could save him.
She made her choice.
"OR Three, immediately!" Her voice cracked like a whip, sharp and authoritative. "Jenny, prepare for emergency surgery. Full trauma setup. Amanda, type and cross-match, at least six units. Michael, get Dr. Harrison in anesthesia NOW. Someone get me vitals. Move!"
The ER exploded into controlled chaos. Her team knew that tone. Training overrode fear.
"Careful with transfer," Aria instructed as they moved him onto the gurney. "Possible internal bleeding. Keep him stable."
The man groaned as they shifted him low, agonized. His eyes flickered open for just a moment. Dark. Pain-filled. Unfocused. Then closed again.
"We are here for you," Aria said, though she wasn't sure he could hear. "Hold on."
The armed men started to follow.
She stopped. Turned. Held up one hand. "No. Hospital regulations. Sterile environment. You'll contaminate the OR and kill him faster than the bullets."
The scarred man's hand moved toward his gun smooth, instinctive. Aria's mouth went dry, but she didn't back down. She'd faced down hospital administrators, insurance companies, and egotistical senior surgeons who thought women couldn't handle trauma surgery. She wasn't about to be intimidated by a gun.
A younger man thirty maybe, sharp eyes, expensive suit grabbed the scarred man's arm. "Rocco. Let her work. She's his only chance."
Rocco's glare could melt steel. For a long moment, Aria thought he'd shoot her anyway.
Then he stepped back. Barely.
"You let him die," he said softly, each word precise, "and you die too. Understand?"
Aria understood perfectly.
"I'll do everything in my power," she said steadily. "That's all anyone can promise."
She turned and followed her patient through the doors, heart pounding, mind already racing through the procedure. Two gunshots, massive trauma, likely internal bleeding, possible organ damage.
This was going to be the fight of her career.
Behind her, armed men settled into the waiting area like predators.
She pushed them out of her mind. Right now, more important concerns.
Like saving a man whose name she didn't even know.
OR Three smelled like antiseptic and possibility. This was her cathedral. Her kingdom. The one place she controlled everything.
"Vitals," she barked, scrubbing in.
"BP 80 over 50 and dropping. Heart rate 130. Oxygen sat 89 percent."
Shit. He was crashing fast.
"Start transfusion. Prep for intubation. Let's move."
Dr. Harrison appeared, already gowned. "Hell of a way to spend Tuesday night."
"When I throw a party, I throw a party." Aria snapped gloves on. "Let's keep this one alive."
They'd cut away his shirt. His entire torso was a canvas of black ink intricate designs telling stories she didn't have time to read. A phoenix rising from flames across his chest. A wolf on his shoulder. Roman numerals down his ribs.
And over his heart, a portrait. A little girl, maybe eight, smiling. Words underneath: Angelina, sempre nel mio cuore.
Angelina, always in my heart.
Daughter? Sister? Someone he loved enough to mark permanently.
No time to wonder. Focus.
"First bullet's high left chest," Aria said, examining. "Missed the subclavian artery by millimeters. Lucky bastard. Second one's in the liver region. That's our problem."
"Ready when you are," Harrison said from anesthesia.
She picked up the scalpel. "Let's go find some bullets."
The first incision released a rush of blood. She worked quickly, efficiently, hands moving with the muscle memory of thousands of procedures. Suction cleared the field. Retractors held tissue aside.
"There." She pointed with a clamp. "Bullet lodged against the pericardium. Two millimeters to the left and he'd be dead before they got him here."
"Fate wants him alive," Harrison observed.
"Who am I to argue with fate?" Aria maneuvered instruments carefully. The bullet came out cleanly. She dropped it in the specimen tray with a metallic clink. "One down."
But the monitor was beeping. Wrong rhythm. Irregular.
She paused, studied the EKG. Something off about the pattern. The QT interval is too long. Way too long.
"Harrison, are you seeing this?"
He checked his monitors. "Yeah. QT prolongation. Significant."
"Genetic?" Aria asked, already knowing the answer.
"Most likely. Long QT Syndrome. He probably doesn't even know he has it."
She filed that information away. Later. Right now, the second bullet.
"Let's address the liver damage. This is where it gets interesting."
The liver was a disaster. The bullet had torn through the right lobe, shredded blood vessels, and caused massive internal bleeding. This was the injury killing him.
"Suction. More suction. I need visibility."
Her hands moved faster now. Racing the clock. Racing death itself.
"BP dropping. 70 over 40."
"Give him another unit. Keep him with me."
She worked with focused intensity, repairing torn vessels, stitching shredded tissue. The liver regenerates if you know what you're doing. But only if you stop the bleeding first.
Around hour four, she almost lost him.
"Pressure's crashing. 60 over 30."
"Not today," Aria muttered. "Come on, you stubborn man. You didn't survive two bullets to die on my table."
More transfusions. More stitches. More impossible precision.
Slowly agonizingly slowly his vitals stabilized.
"BP rising. 75 over 45."
She let out a breath. "That's what I like to see."
By hour six, she was closing him up. The worst was over. He'd live.
"Nice work, Dr. Salvini," Harrison said.
"Thanks. Though I'd prefer my patients arrive with fewer bullet holes."
As they wheeled him to recovery, Aria looked at the tattoo over his heart again. Angelina. Whoever she was, she mattered to him.
Good. Men who loved that deeply fought harder to live.
She walked into the waiting area at dawn. The four men hadn't moved. They sat like statues, radiating barely contained violence.
Rocco stood the moment he saw her.
"He's alive," Aria said simply. "Both bullets were removed. Liver repaired. He'll need to stay here at least a week, but barring complications, he should make a full recovery."
The relief was instant. Rocco's shoulders sagged. The younger man closed his eyes briefly. Even the silent giant in the corner seemed to exhale.
"Thank you," Rocco said, voice rough with emotion. "You saved his life."
"Just doing my job." She was too tired for false modesty. "He's strong. He fought."
"What's your name?" the younger man asked.
"Dr. Salvini. Aria Salvini."
Something flickered in his expression. Too quick to read. He exchanged a glance with Rocco.
"Thank you, Dr. Salvini," he said carefully. "We won't forget this."
She nodded and turned to leave. Her shift had ended eight hours ago. Her bed was calling.
She didn't know it yet, but giving them her name had just sealed her fate.
In the locker room, she finally let exhaustion hit. Peeled off bloody scrubs. Washed blood from under her fingernails. Stared at her reflection.
Dark circles. Hair a mess. But alive. Alert. Buzzing with that post-surgery high.
Her phone buzzed. Sienna: "Heard you saved a mobster. Very on-brand collecting dangerous strays."
She smirked despite exhaustion. Typed back: "He's not a stray. More like a wounded apex predator. Much more interesting."
"You're going to get yourself killed one day."
"Not today. Today I'm sleeping for twelve hours."
She grabbed her stuff and headed out. The sun was rising over Rome, painting the city gold.
At home, she collapsed into bed fully clothed. Didn't even bru
sh her teeth.
As she drifted off, she saw those dark eyes flickering open. Pain-filled but aware.
Whoever he was, whatever he did, she'd saved him.
Somehow, she knew that decision was going to change everything.