Working three years in the ER completely destroys your basic survival instincts. While normal people run from danger, nurses are hardwired to sprint right toward it.
That is the only way I can explain why I didn’t flee when I saw the thick trail of blood leading into my dark garage.
It was past midnight. I had just survived a brutal double shift, and the last thing I wanted to deal with was a crime scene. Any sane person would have locked themselves in their car and dialed 911. But when I heard the ragged, agonizing gasps echoing from behind my storage boxes, my medical brain took over.
“I’m a nurse. I can help,” I called out, using my phone’s flashlight to pierce the gloom.
“Stay back,” a deep, heavily accented voice rasped.
I ignored him, rounding the boxes to find a massive, muscular man slumped against the wall. He was clutching his side, blood pouring through his fingers. Even pale and injured, his sharp features and dark eyes radiated a lethal, dangerous intensity.
I knelt beside him, my hands instinctively reaching for the wound. He tried to shove me away. “You don’t want to get involved. Trust me.”
“You’re bleeding on my floor. Too late,” I snapped, pulling out my phone. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
With terrifying speed, his bloody hand clamped around my wrist. That’s when his jacket shifted, revealing the heavy pistol holstered at his hip. “No hospitals. No police,” he warned. “Walk away. Forget you saw me.”
I stared at the gun, then back to his eyes. I should have run. Instead, I peeled his hand away to examine the damage. “It’s a through-and-through gunshot wound. You’re bleeding out.”
“Hospitals report gunshot wounds,” he ground out.
“I know,” I sighed, standing up to fetch the heavy trauma kit I kept in my trunk. “Which is why I’m treating you here.”
For the next hour, my garage became a makeshift operating room. Under the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb, I cleaned the wound, stitched torn flesh, and packed it tight. He bit down on a rolled-up towel, his jaw tense, but he never made a single sound. His absolute stoicism was terrifying.
Exhausted, I collapsed into a folding lawn chair beside him to monitor his vitals, eventually slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When the morning sun bled through the garage windows, I jolted awake. The space was completely silent.
He was standing near the door, miraculously upright, buttoning a fresh black shirt. Outside my driveway, three menacing black SUVs were idling, surrounded by men in dark suits. My heart leaped into my throat.
“You’re leaving,” I breathed, standing up.
He turned. His dangerous, commanding aura was fully restored. He closed the distance between us, his towering frame casting a shadow over me, and slipped a sleek, matte-black card into my scrub pocket. It had only a single phone number printed on it in gold foil.
“Gabriel Rossi,” he finally introduced himself, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
My stomach plummeted. The Rossi syndicate ruled the city’s entire criminal underbelly.
“You saved my life last night,” Gabriel continued, his voice a low, rough rumble. “In my world, a debt like that is eternal.”
I shook my head nervously, stepping back. “I just did my job as a nurse. We’re even. You don’t owe me anything.”
Gabriel stepped closer, closing the gap. He raised a large, calloused hand, his thumb gently brushing a smudge of dried blood from my cheek. The contrast of his gentle touch against his lethal reputation sent a shiver down my spine.
“We will never be even,” he murmured, his eyes darkening with a possessive vow. “You didn’t walk away when you should have. You saved my life. And now? Now you’re mine to protect.”
