Annabel Sinclair woke up as usual—in a hurry—a quick shower, her dark locks tied back into a neat bun, her starched scrubs crisp and fresh and ready. A twelve-hour shift stretched out before her, the kind that seeped into the bones, but she welcomed it. Work was all that was left in her life that was steady. She was halfway to the hospital when she turned around, having left something behind. Not something—her tablet, full of patient charts, case notes, and hours of work from her life. She cursed and turned her car around. The building loomed on the horizon, their apartment window shining with morning light. She rolled her eyes, half-laughing at herself. Steven is probably still asleep. The door clicked open with her hand. “Steven, you would not even believe—” Her words died away. First, it was the sound that stopped her—low, gasping moans, rhythmic and unmistakable. She froze in the hallway, her chest constricting, the sound pulling her forward against her will. She came to the bedroom door. Her lips curled into a disbelieving smile, the one that precedes denial breaks. She opened the door. And there he was. Her Steven—boyfriend, man she trusted with her life—was wrapped in the bed sheets with a stranger. Blonde hair on her pillow. His body on hers with a ferocity that made Annabel’s stomach turn. He was so engulfed in it, so far deep in this woman, that he didn’t notice Annabel until their eyes locked. Time shattered. Her heart missed a beat. Her mouth went dry. Steven’s face went white as his strokes faltered. “Annabel—wait—it’s not—” But she did not wait. She stumbled backward, a gagging sound tearing from her throat, and the apartment walls came tumbling down. The room was thick with sex and betrayal, the cologne she had loved now choking her. Her shaking hands groped for the doorknob, missing once, twice, before jerking it open and fleeing. By the time she was in her car, her heart was thudding in her ears, obscenely streaming tears in her eyes. She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles were white. How could he? The man who breathed forever, the man who wrapped his arms around her when the nights were endless, the man who had vowed to give her everything—had shattered it all. And then the most brutal thought of all came crashing down. She hadn’t even told him yet. She was pregnant. Her belly revolted. The queasiness rushed up, past heartache, past betrayal. She was pregnant. Alone. The wheel blurred out of view as the tears flowed freely now, dropping onto her lap as she convulsed with sobs. Annabel Sinclair, the woman who’d saved countless lives in the operating theatre, who mended broken hearts with unwavering hands—couldn’t save her own. For interminable seconds she cracked, slumped over the wheel. But something within her changed. Steven had already reached his limit. He was not going to have her strength. She breathed more steadily. She rubbed her face on the back of her hand and composed herself. Work. That was all that mattered now. Precision. Control. Life and death—not this. She drove to the hospital, mask safely in place. The hospital greeted her with its cold sterility—stunning lights, quiet emergency, the hum of monitors and scurrying footsteps. It was easier here, where emotions had no place, where she could merge with rhythm and technique. She scrubbed her hands automatically: scrub, rinse, repeat. She focused on the burn of antiseptic, the smell snapping at her nostrils, grounding her. “Dr. Sinclair?” She turned. Dr. Ethan Carter stood nearby, eyes narrowed with quiet intensity. A senior surgeon, sharp, intuitive—he was brilliant, but his worst quality was seeing through people. “You okay?” His voice was low, meant only for her. Annabel forced a smile, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine.” He didn’t appear to take him seriously. His gaze remained on him, but he nodded once. “Good. Because we’ve got a patient with a ruptured aorta. I want you helping out.” The adrenaline came in immediately, a lifeline pulling her in. She went into the operating room with him, her world narrowing to the man on the table. “Lancet,” she breathed. The instrument slapped into her palm, familiar, heavy. Ethan’s commands snapped out sharp and unrelenting, and she greeted them with trained speed. There was a moment, a fleeting moment, when there was nothing else—scalpel, suction, clamps, and the fragile heartbeat of the man they were trying to save. Until her body turned against her. A wave of dizziness struck like a blow. The room tilted, her vision blurring at the edges. Her breath caught, and for one terrifying moment, she thought she might collapse right there. “Dr. Sinclair?” Ethan’s sharp voice cut across the sterile air. “I’m fine,” she rasped, forcing her hand steady, forcing her body into obedience. She would not fail here. Not now. Minutes turned to hours, but the surgery was a success. Relief surged through her as monitors leveled out. She ripped off her gloves and took a step back, the world careening again as nausea and exhaustion hit her. Her hand flashed to the wall, grabbing for balance. She didn’t have the strength to stand before he was by her side. “Ethan,” he said, not Dr. Sinclair—Ethan. His hand wrapped around her arm, holding her in place as her knees buckled. You’re not okay.” His tone was steel. “I’m insisting you go get yourself checked out this minute.” She shook her head quickly, panic rising. Vulnerability was a no-go. “No—I’m fine. Really. I just… I didn’t eat today. I’m tired, that’s all. I’ll be fine.” His jaw tightened, eyes still scouring hers. But she pushed back, struggled up, mask falling into place again. Fine. She would be fine. But deep inside, Annabel knew the truth. How long could she hide it?
The night was thick, viscous, as rain crept over the city streets. Annabel walked out of the hospital, exhaustion creeping into her bones after a lengthy shift. Work had been her only armor, her only sanctuary, but now that the operating room was behind her, the betrayal—the pregnancy—crept back into her thoughts like shadows waiting in ambush. She pulled her coat closer and walked across the parking lot, heels clicking on the damp asphalt. The overhead lights buzzed quietly, their long, fractured beams reaching out over the pavement. She sighed, wanting to just go home and collapse into bed. That’s when she felt it. A shiver ran down her spine. The slight sensation of being watched. Her hand had hardly touched the car door handle when an arm circled her waist, another clamped hard over her mouth. The scream was swallowed in her throat, suffocated by the calloused palm over her mouth. She fought wildly. Panic clawed at her breast, adrenaline racing through her veins. She kicked, her heels thudding into the ground, but another pair of hands clutched her legs and dragged her off her feet. “Keep still,” a deep voice growled in her ear, the words slurring with a heavy Italian accent. Terror spiked. Her fingernails scraped across his arm in a desperate attempt to break free, but her struggles appeared to strengthen their hold. A black van slid into view. The side door opened. A rag was clamped over her face, acrid chemicals burning her lungs. The world reeled. Her screams were never able to leave her throat. Darkness claimed her. — She awoke to echoes of movement. Her head throbbed. The constant hum of engines vibrated through her body. Annabel blinked into a haze of dim light. The air smelled of leather, tobacco, and something metallic. She shifted—and froze. Her wrists were bound. When her eyes focused, the truth snapped into place. She wasn’t on a hospital cot. She was on a private jet. The cabin gleamed with opulence: mahogany wood, polished gold, plush leather. It screamed wealth and power, but to Annabel it reeked of danger. “You’re awake.” The sound drew her attention. A man sat across from her. Broad shoulders strained his bespoke suit, his face chiseled in austere lines. His eyes were worse—dark, icy, cutting her open like prey. “Who are you?” Her voice rasped, dry and coarse, contradicting the fear. He bowed his head, amusement flickering. “You don’t need my name, Dottoressa. Just know that you have a function here.” Doctor. Her chest constricted. They knew exactly who she was. There was no time to respond before the cabin door opened. In came a second man, older, silver streaking his slicked-back hair. Command wore him like a second skin. Annabel needed no introduction. Don Raffaele. The name she’d heard whispered, spoken in fear, headlines that implied brutality and power. “Dr. Sinclair,” he said, taking a seat opposite her. His Italian accent stroked every syllable like velvet on steel. “Pardon the theatrics, but time was not in our favor.” Her heart pounded. Why me? Raffaele tented his fingers. “My sister, Pinky, suffers from a rare and terminal heart condition. The best have failed her. You will not.” Annabel stared, horror tightening her stomach. She was a doctor, sworn to save lives. But kidnapped? Forced across borders? Fury bubbled under her fear. “You kidnapped me,” she spat. “And now you expect me to willingly save her?” The don’s lips curled, less than a smile. “You are mistaken. This is not a request. You will save her because I need you to. Or you will never see your home again.” The words sliced like a knife. Annabel bristled, hardening her voice even as her stomach tightened. “Threats won’t heal her. Medicine doesn’t yield to intimidation. If your sister is as sick as you say, she needs proper care. I need her records. Tests. A hospital.” Raffaele’s black eyes searched her, seeking vulnerabilities. “You’ll have what you need. But you will do it under my roof. Under my protection.” Protection. The word burned. Her jaw clenched. “Why me? There are specialists, entire clinics—” “You are the best,” he cut in, his voice authoritative. “And you are discreet. That is most important.” Annabel’s breath caught. It wasn’t her skill they required—it was her silence. They didn’t require a doctor. They required a ghost who would never inquire, never disclose the truth. Hours later, the plane touched down. Midnight veiled the private airstrip. Salt and citrus were heavy in the air, warm Mediterranean winds enfolding her. No sooner had the cabin door been opened than armed men stepped in. “Untie her,” Raffaele ordered. The ropes fell from her wrists, blood rushing back in stinging throbs. Annabel rubbed the raw places, her mind racing. Run. Her muscles bunched, ready. But she was grasped by the arm before she had a chance to step forward. “Don’t,” a low voice breathed. She spun around. A tall, lean man with piercing green eyes gazed down at her. His expression was unreadable, but his words cut. “You won’t get far.” Her body tensed. Fight boiled in her chest, but she swallowed it. Not yet. They escorted her to a sleek black car. The ride was quiet, broken only by the winding roads through the countryside. Then the villa rose in front of her—massive, lit up against the moon’s darkness. Stone walls, giant gates, chandeliers glittering through the windows. Opulence saturated in menace. Marble floors stretched out before her within, chandeliers spilling crystal. It was beautiful, dizzying. The air itself vibrated with power. A young woman burst in, her voice frantic. “Raffaele! È peggiorata!” She’s worse. Annabel’s heart fell. Pinky. For the first time, Raffaele’s mask slipped. Fear gleamed in his eyes. “This is why you are here, Dottoressa Sinclair.” His voice dropped to a growl. “Save her.”
Annabel stepped into the hall, her body trembling with exhaustion. Every nerve in her body screamed for rest, but she forced herself to stand tall. Raffaele was waiting for her, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his face carved in stone. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, never left hers. “How is she?” His voice cut through the stillness—sharp, authoritative, impossible to ignore. Annabel breathed slowly before she could bear to look at him. “She’s stable. The surgery was a success. There were moments it almost slipped, but I held her through it. For now, she just needs to be watched closely.” Raffaele didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He was as unmoving as the marble that adorned his villa. Annabel crossed her arms, gathering courage she could barely feel. “I’ve done what you wanted. Now, let me go.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “No. Not yet.” Her stomach tightened. “No? That wasn’t the deal.” His lips curved—although not into a smile. “We never had a deal.” He turned as if to walk past her, dismissing her altogether. Annabel grabbed his arm, surprising herself as much as him. “Don’t you dare dismiss me. You said we’d talk after surgery. I held my end of the bargain. You do know she’ll live because of me. That’s why you brought me here in the first place. So now—let me go.” He brushed her hand away like it was nothing, moving into the room. Fury surged through her exhaustion. She followed, stepping between him and the bed. “A patient fresh out of surgery should not be disturbed. And you’re not an exception. Look for yourself—she’s alive. She’s stable. That’s my work. Now keep your promise.” His eyes darkened, his presence swallowing the space around her. “You’re not leaving this estate until Pinky is better. That is not up for debate.” Annabel’s heart rate sped up, but she didn’t back down. “You can be Don Raffaele out there,” she spat, her voice slashing despite the tremble in her hands, “but in here, with me, she’s my patient. And this—” she nodded toward the girl sleeping behind them— “is medicine. Not mafia business. You can’t order that.” A spark of something danced in his eyes, but it was gone as fast. His hand darted out, catching her arm, yanking her into the hallway before slamming her against the wall. “Listen,” he snarled, voice low and lethal. “Do not touch me again. Don’t mistake your skill for power. I didn’t bring you here to negotiate. You’ll do my bidding until Pinky is out of danger. And if you so much as think about testing me—” His aura thrust into her, suffocating. “—you will not leave here alive.” The impact of his words hit her in the chest, but Annabel refused to look away. He scared her—repelled her—but she’d die standing rather than cower at his feet. He rose to his feet, his voice back to glacial command. “Take her to her room. Feed her. Clothes. She’s earned that much.” His gaze was still on her, knife-sharp. “Let’s make our relationship problem-free, Dottoressa Sinclair.” He did not wait for her reply. He had no need to. His word was law in this place. Annabel’s legs were weak, her stomach nauseous, but she would not let it be obvious. When the guards brought her to the room, she was aware of the truth about her destiny: she could save Pinky’s life, but she had no way to save her own. Her room was large, luxurious, suffocating. A tray of food waited for her, clothes stacked neatly on the bed. She didn’t see them. Her eyes landed squarely on the balcony. She ran outside, breath catching at the sight of armed guards patrolling the grounds. The smell of the ocean blew in the night air, salt and freedom tauntingly combining with her captivity. Even if she could slip past the guards, she had no ID, no money, no phone. There was no escape. Her chest tightened. No one knew where she was. No one would even search. She stormed back in, wildly searching around. Her bag was on the sofa. She tore it open, her heart pounding—her clothes, her wallet, her belongings were there. Everything except for her phone. Classic. The mafia didn’t leave loose ends. “This is bullshit, Raffaele!” she screamed into the void. “You steal my freedom, now my phone too? What next? My life?”She wouldn’t dare mention the fact that she was pregnant who knew what these people were capable of. And though the walls didn’t answer, she knew he was listening. Miles away in his study, Raffaele leaned back in his chair, cigarette dangling between his fingers, eyes fixed on the CCTV transmission. Annabel’s revolt blazed across the screen, her anger emanating off her in waves. “You certain about this, Don?” his underboss asked uncertainly, watching with him. “She’s volatile. What if she turns that temper on Pinky?” Raffaele exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his eyes never leaving the image of Annabel on the screen. “She’s too smart for that,” he said evenly. “But if she isn’t—” His lips curved into something dangerous. “—I’ll kill her myself.”
Annabel’s door boomed with a resounding crash, jolting her out of the disturbed sleep she had finally gained. Her heart missed a beat as she dragged herself out of bed, her eyes gritty with sleep deprivation. Raffaele towered in the doorway when she opened it—large, furious, his hand on her arm before she could so much as speak. “What have you done?” he grated. Annabel’s eyes snapped open, sleep fogged with confusion. “What are you saying?” “Her machines are beeping—” The sentence wasn’t completed because Annabel tore loose, running down the hall before he could stop her. She burst through Pinky’s door. The machines shrieked in warning. Her stomach plummeted with fear, but her hands stayed certain. She raced to the bedside, checking vitals, checking everything. “Someone was in here,” she snarled, already filling a syringe. She injected the stabilizer hastily, and the beeping slowed. Pinky’s vitals leveled out, but Annabel’s fury rose. “I said nobody was to come in here! She’s still too weak—any stress can kill her!” Raffaele’s gaze sliced to Luca, his underboss, who stood in the doorway with the same impassive calm. “Who came in?” “Nobody, Don,” Luca answered evenly. “The maids were nearby. They heard the alarm and came to report.” Raffaele’s jaw tightened. His eyes burned into Luca’s, but Annabel wasn’t paying attention. She was too focused on keeping Pinky’s pulse stable. Her patient came first—always. Even here. Even in danger. “She’s stable now,” Annabel muttered, replacing everything she’d handled. She didn’t look at Raffaele when she said, “For the last time—no one is to enter this room. She’s semi-conscious, she can hear, and you’re worrying her. You want her alive? Stay away and heed me. I’m the doctor here, not you.” She blurted out, her hand coming to her stomach—an act she had picked up recently. Without thinking, the words slipped free, low and sharp: “And I don’t need this stress—I’m pregnant.” Raffaele froze, his dark eyes narrowing sharply. “What?” Not waiting for permission, Annabel stood and departed quickly, muttering under her breath, that was close, who knew what would have happened. It was five a.m., she’d had little sleep, and now she was being dragged about like she was the criminal. Hours later, she was sitting at the dinner table across from Raffaele. He ate in silence, calm as if nothing had happened. Her plate was still full. “Not hungry?” he finally asked, eyes not lifting. “I want my phone,” she shot back. “That’s the very least you can do after keeping me here against my will. I’ll have you sued for this the moment I’m free.” His eyes lifted, dark and intense. “What if I don’t release you? She taunted, gesturing at him fearless. “Hear me, Don Raffaele. If you had brought your sister to a hospital like a decent human being, I would have performed surgery on her for free. But no, you abducted me. I am done with this craziness.” The maids halted, agog. The guards shifted. No one—no one—ever addressed him in anything more than a whisper. And here she was, snapping her fingers, waving at the Don like he was anybody. “You’re pushing your luck, Dottoressa Sinclair,” he said, putting down his knife and fork. His presence rolled across the table, heavy, menacing. Annabel didn’t flinch. “Give me back my phone, and we forget all about this. Simple.” His head was cocked, studying her like a puzzle. “And how am I supposed to know you won’t shout for help?” Her eyes narrowed. “Sure I will. That’s what phones were made for—to communicate.” Her fingers cracked again. “I can also rip out the threads keeping your sister alive at my next appointment. Or I can take a jump from that balcony and kill myself. At least that way I won’t be your prisoner.” The room went silent. Even Raffaele looked… unsettled. Not by fear—by intrigue. She was the first person who had dared to corner him like this, using his weakness against him. Annabel stood tall, hand outstretched. “I’m waiting.” A long beat passed before he finally spoke. “How long until she wakes?” “About a week. Maybe less.” Raffaele gestured to his butler. Wordlessly, the man left the room. Raffaele continued eating, at ease once more. “Eat something. You didn’t have dinner last night.” “Your son of—” Annabel cut herself off as the butler returned, placing her phone in her hand. She snatched it like air, turning it on immediately. “If you so much as breathe a word to anyone about being here,” Raffaele said flatly, his eyes glacial and unyielding, “you’re dead. I’ve had my men take care of your leave at work. You’re here until Pinky’s out of danger. That’s final.” Annabel had no opportunity to respond before Luca appeared beside them, stooping to whisper in Raffaele’s ear. And then—gunshots. Annabel froze. The harsh report of gunfire echoed through the villa, shredding the tense silence. Her phone dropped from her hand. “What—what’s going on?” she demanded, fear tightening her chest. Raffaele leapt to his feet. He grabbed her, lifting her into his arms without hesitation, getting out of the dining room as more shots were fired. “A setup,” he snarled, his grip like stone on her. His stride didn’t falter as chaos erupted in the halls. Annabel clung to him, fear racing through her veins. “Where are we going?” He didn’t stop, didn’t look at her. “To Pinky. We get her now. Stay with me—or you’ll die in the crossfire.”
The door slammed shut with a gunshot’s force in the black empty room. There were heavy footsteps, slow and deliberate, almost theatrical. The room was dark—darkness crawling up the walls, lit only by the thin crescent of moonlight through the ajar window. The wind screamed through the opening like a snake’s breath. “How did the plan go?” The voice was male, hunched in the blackness. He filled the room with his presence even though he didn’t stir, his presence suffocating enough. “It is powerful, boss,” the figure who had just walked in replied. His tone even, but sweat slicking the palms of his hands. “But… there is an unforeseen twist of complication. Someone we didn’t expect.” There was a silence. The darkness was even blacker. “Explain.” “They have Doctor Sinclair now. Raffaele brought her in. With her talent, Pinky… may be saved.” The silence that followed was worse than any scream. Then the voice of the boss dropped to an unholy whisper. “What?” “I—I thought—” “You thought?” The glacial, frosty words cut like a knife. “If the girl lives, we have no leverage. We have no chance of breaking Raffaele. Do you comprehend?” The man gulped. “Yes, boss.”. “Then make sure the doctor never gets the chance to succeed. Kill her before Pinky is freed by the Sinclair woman. I want her killed.” The figure bowed his head in agreement. “Your wish, my command.” — At the same time, in Raffaele’s villa, chaos was the order of the day. Men rushed with weapons drawn, smoke still rising from the raging battle miles away. Pinky’s frail body was being carried gingerly towards a waiting private aircraft. Annabel trailed behind, her heart pounding so fiercely she was afraid it would break her ribs. She had never imagined she would be in the midst of a mafia war zone. Don Raffaele—the name uttered in reverence, the one breathed on streets everywhere—besieged in his own territory. Unless… had this not been his true fortress at all? Was this villa just a decoy, a temporary domicile? Had he overestimated his enemies—or overestimated how much she saw? “Get in,” Luca directed, his voice sharp, jolting her out of her turbulent thoughts. Annabel stood still, watching the burning house, the shouting men bellowing orders in Italian, the bitter scent of gunpowder drifting on the night air. Ironically, she wasn’t trembling. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe years of state-of-the-art surgeries had rewired her nerves—danger did not paralyze her; it focused her. She nodded once, moving toward the jet’s stairs. And then— CRACK! Blistering white-hot pain coursed through her arm, searing. A gunshot. Her scream tore through her throat as blood flowed fast and hot, moistening her sleeve. She hadn’t even had time to slump when someone pushed her hard forward. She fell face-first into the plane, feeling metal as her teeth bit into her lip. “F—shit!” she moaned, clashing her arm. Her body spasmed as pain ripped through her. The pain was exquisite, blinding her mind. The woman who could cut through the human chest with eyes closed was now at her mercy, overwhelmed by pain. Gunfire cracked outside, but a second later the ear-shattering roar of engines drowned it out. In the seconds it took, the jet soared into the night. “Do dottoressa Sinclair, okay?” Luca had materialized out of thin air, kneeling, hands already on her wound. His voice was frantic but controlled, his movements fluid—this was a man who had seen his share of blood. Annabel grimaced as he pressed on the wound. “Don’t touch me!” she snarled, tears running down her face. “I did not sign up for this! I am a doctor, not a grunt!” She wished to slap him, to scream, to open the plane door wide and leap out. But the harsh reality pressed down upon her heart—she was not here by choice. She was dragged into this hell, and the culprit was none other than Raffaele himself. If he came into the room right now, she knew she would claw his eyes out. “Doctor— The hysterical voice of a maid cut through the air. “She’s unstable again! Is it the stress?” Annabel’s bleeding head whirled. Pinky. Her fury came back momentarily, giving way to sheer animal instinct. She yanked her arm away from Luca’s, just managing to stay upright from the action. “If I’m killed, who rescues her, then? Damn it!” she growled, stumbling to her feet. Her vision blurred. She was stunned, weak, bleeding, but she struggled on. Sheaving herself in haste for strength, growling orders at the maids, her voice iron. “Do exactly what I did to her previously—stabilize her now. Get a move on!” Her medical mind kicked in, blinding her to the pain. Her arm was broken, but her hands were okay. Her mind was okay. She had prepared for emergencies her entire life, and this one was no different. As a child, while others played, she had studied anatomy textbooks. She had chased the dream of becoming a surgeon ruthlessly, never giving up. She had promised never to lose a patient. And she would not start now—not even in this bloody life she was forced into. Hours bled into one continual hell. The plane touched down, the wounded were shunted out, the new headquarters of the mansion revealed. Annabel did not notice the luxurious corridors or the gunslingers in every corner. She noticed only that Pinky’s stats remained stable when she finally released him. Her body ached, her arm burned, but fury propelled her. She barged into the living room where Raffaele and Luca stood talking to each other. Don Raffaele, she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut steel. He whirled, brows slanted in disbelief. Few people cut him short. Annabel marched ahead, glaring up at him despite the dizziness threatening to drive her to the floor. “Whatever this is, I don’t play. I almost died today. Do you know that? Died. Because of your enemies. Because you brought me here.”. His expression was unreadable. “It was a bait. You weren’t meant to be caught in the crossfire.” “Crossfire?” she growled, anger seething. “In case you didn’t get the time of day—I was shot. I’ve got flames in my arm, I’m bleeding on my clothing, and you’re telling me it was a crossfire? That young woman inside—your sister—is dead due to your incompetence! Did I save her life to have her be collateral damage in your mafia horseshit?” The maids and guards stood frozen in shock. No one talked to him that way. No one. Raffaele’s eyes grew dark, his aura bearing down. But Annabel didn’t back down. Her head reeled, her arm ached, but her glare remained fixed on his. “If anything goes wrong with her,” she spat, “you will never hear the end of it from me. Never.” The tension between them crackled with unspoken words—anger, defiance, and something neither could bring themselves to call. But before Raffaele could answer, a maid burst into the room, out of breath. “She’s awake!” Everyone stood stock-still. The maid trembled as she spoke again, “The young mistress is awake.”
Annabel shoved Luca aside, her bandaged arm blazing as she struggled through. She was talking to herself, spitting Don Raffaele’s name like venom through clenched teeth. Every movement hurt her like a stab of pain, but she forced herself upright, jaw tight. She was not a soldier, but she wore her wounds like one—hospital blues rather than uniform, duty fighting rage. Her anger simmered, then hardened into something more brittle. Duty. Whatever anger she felt toward Raffaele would have to wait. The maid’s breathless announcement still rang in her ears—Pinky was awake. The hallway to the girl’s bedroom was lengthy and heavy with silence, the kind that was rife with echoes of bullets and near-death. Every step Annabel took was pursued by the recollection of her own shriek when the bullet tore through her arm, the fear of sprinting through crossfire. The door loomed before her, partly ajar, as if it had been waiting for her. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her from the weight of all that was on the other side. She pushed it open. There, on the wide bed dressed in white linens, lay Pinky. Her skin was pale, her breathing so shallow it did not even stir her chest. But her eyes—open, glassy, unprotected—met Annabel’s. The sight wrenched the air from Annabel’s chest. The girl was alive. Barely, but alive. And in this world of smoke and blood, that was nothing short of a miracle. Annabel swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, “Pinky…” The girl’s head moved, her eyes drifting towards her doctor. By the bedside, Raffaele leaned forward, one of his hands closing around Pinky’s frail fingers. His face was stone, but his hand betrayed him—tightly fisted, desperate, clinging as if his own life was tied to hers. Annabel entered to meet his piercing eyes flashing up to hers. They shared a silent communication. His was silent gratitude, hers frosty professionalism. “Dottoressa,” his voice grated low, almost a plea. “She needs you.” Annabel didn’t answer. She brushed past him, her coat grazing his arm. Her hands were already on Pinky’s wrist, checking pulse, measuring pupils, running through her assessments with brisk precision. “You’re one tough little cookie,” Annabel muttered, managing the barest ghost of a smile. Pinky’s lips trembled. Her whisper was fragile, dreamlike. “I saw… a butterfly. It had your face.” Raffaele’s eyebrows narrowed, suspicion fluttering. Annabel snorted, in spite of herself. “New one,” she said, voice rough. She glanced at the machines beside the bed. “Vitals are stabilizing. She’s not out of the woods, but she’s fighting.” “She said my name,” Raffaele rasped suddenly, his mask cracking. His eyes gleamed, voice cracking. “When she woke up. I thought for a moment—” He choked, unable to go on. Annabel’s tone softened, almost kind. “She’s not done yet, Don. Whatever they put her through, whatever she’s seen—it hasn’t broken her. That’s something.” The quiet hum of the monitors filled the silence. Even the maids at the door sniffled, relief etched into their faces. Pinky blinked slowly, turning toward her brother. Her lips parted. “Raffaele…” He leaned closer, his entire body drawn toward her. “I’m here, sorellina. Always.” Her next words shattered the fragile calm. “Where’s… Mama?” The room held its breath. Annabel’s hands stilled in mid-check. The question lingered like smoke. Raffaele’s features hardened, then locked. “She’s watching over you,” he rasped. “Always.” Pinky nodded feebly, as though to some unspoken pact, and withdrew her hand. Annabel registered the change first—the quake in Pinky’s fingers, the sudden spike on the monitor. Her training screamed warning. “Raffaele, step back,” she ordered, voice sharp. His head snapped toward her. “What is it?” Her voice tight, professional. “Something’s wrong. Her vitals are spiking.” Before he could move, Pinky’s eyes rolled back. Her small body convulsed violently, spasms racking her frame. The monitors shrieked. The maids screamed in panic. A tray clattered to the floor. “No, no, no—damn it!” Annabel yelled. “Get me diazepam! Now!” she bellowed to the nearest maid. The room dissolved into chaos. One maid ran towards the medicine cabinet. Another plunged forward to hold down Pinky’s flailing legs. Annabel jumped onto the bed, grappling the girl’s arching shoulders down with her good arm, trying to keep her from hurting herself. She slapped the oxygen mask back over Pinky’s mouth. “She’s seizing! Move!” Raffaele recoiled, startled, then leaped into action. “Luca!” Luca was there in a flash, breathless. “Don?” “Lock down the compound. Double the guard. No one in, no one out until I say. I want this house impenetrable!” “Subito!” Luca barked, vanishing down the hall. Annabel barely heard him. She was battling with death itself. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but her hands were steady as a rock. The maid returned, wrestling the medication into her hands. Annabel administered it with practiced speed. “Come on,” she muttered, voice a chant. “Come on, Pinky. With me.” Her eyes darted back and forth between the seizing child and the frantic monitors. Seconds passed like forever. Then, finally, the seizures stopped. Pinky went limp, her breathing rough gasps but present. The monitor slowed, steadied. Annabel collapsed against the bed, her chest rising and falling. Relief swept through her. “Stabilized. For now.” The room sagged with exhaustion. The maids were slumped against the walls, murmuring prayers. Raffaele moved silently to his sister’s bedside, his face a stone mask of grief. He brushed a strand of hair from her face with trembling fingers. “Will she live? Annabel met his eyes, hers grim. “I don’t know. That seizure—it wasn’t normal. It was like her brain was trying to purge something. Trauma. Stress. Or worse… something was induced.” Raffaele’s fists clenched. His jaw worked silently before he rasped, “I’ll tear this city apart. Whoever touched her—” “No,” Annabel cut in, her voice a blade. “Your sister doesn’t need revenge. She needs stability. Quiet. If you go thundering out there looking for enemies, you invite danger back into this room. And I won’t have you undo my work.” Their eyes locked, a contest of wills. Then, finally, his shoulders eased, infinitesimally. “You’re right,” he muttered, voice low. “You keep her safe. I’ll keep everything outside this door safe.” “Deal,” Annabel muttered, already stripping off gloves smeared with blood. She turned on the maids, her voice sharp. “You—warm saline in her IV every two hours. And you—stay by her bedside. No rattling, no whispering. I don’t want to hear a pin drop unless it’s to save her life. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes, doctor,” the women chimed in unison, dipping their heads. It was not until the room was quiet that Annabel’s body betrayed her. The adrenaline drained, and she was weak. Her knees buckled and she nearly fell. A biting gust from the open window startled her awake again. Her arm was numb, cold, seeping through the bandage, but she would not be stopped. Pinky’s fragile grip on life held her captive. Raffaele stood in the doorway. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. You could’ve run last night,” he said finally. His voice was low, woven with something that was not quite reproach, not quite admiration. “Instead, you come in here half-dead and dive headfirst into the fire.” Annabel shot him a glare, tired, belligerent. “I don’t do this for applause, Don. I do it because I can. Even if I hate every single person in this house.”. For the first time, his mouth corner jerked. A low laugh. “Do you hate me that much?” Her reply was dry. “You’re not getting on my Christmas list.” His laughter darkened, lower now. “Then from tonight, you owe me more than a card.” She said nothing. The machines hummed, Pinky’s breathing sighed, and in the distance Luca’s voice bellowed orders down the corridor. Annabel wiped at her forehead, exhaustion consuming her. But upon gazing at Pinky, she whispered, a prayer almost. “Stay with me, Pinky. For a little longer.”.
The spasm had passed, but the strangling silence it left behind remained. Annabel Sinclair inhaled a breath, then forced herself into slow, careful exhalation. Her arms were wrapped tightly around Pinky’s face, porcelain white, glass thin. The child slept—her small chest rising and falling with a pace so shallow as to be mistaken for death. But it was life, fragile and beautiful. The machines hummed like sentinels around them, hygienic, metallic, and pitiless. For the time being at least, the war had stopped. “Resting,” Annabel panted huskily to herself, her words creaking like shattered glass with strain. The two maids exchanged glances across the room—fear giving way to relief, hope flickering dimly in their drained eyes. Behind them, against the wall, Raffaele watched. His granite position revealed nothing, but his eyes were fixed—on Annabel, not on equipment, not on his sister, but on Annabel. Admiration. Awe. Something un-safe in a man like him. Annabel, on the other hand, was snapping. She had a white shirt sticking to her back with clotted blood, a bandaged arm dripping red down to the elbow. She could barely keep from leaning forward, but her eyes were bright, unwinking, the eyes of a soldier who will not blink on the field of war. “Doctor,” Raffaele did say at last, his voice gravelly and low. “You should have that arm treated.” “I will,” she whispered without looking up. “When? “When she is safe.” “She is safe. We’ve barricaded the house.” Annabel spun around, her expression as unyielding as steel. “That’s what you said last time. And she nearly died.” The words cut. His jaw tightened, and guilt flickered in his eyes before he covered it once more. Good. She wanted him to feel it. He should. Once she’d taken Pinky’s readings again, Annabel finally stood, muscles trembling. She washed her bloodstained hands on a towel, then headed toward the adjoining bathroom. “I’m dressing this wound,” she said without a trace of doubt in her voice. “Don’t let anyone disturb me—unless her vitals crash.” Raffaele gave a curt nod. “Go.” Behind the locked door, Annabel tore the bandage from her arm. The view made her stomach churn—red, inflamed, angry flesh beneath. Her hand closed around a bottle, spilling liquor right on top of the wound. Teeth gritted, a snarl tearing from her throat as the burn sent fire shooting through her nerves. The mirror reflected back to the woman what she had become now: hair disheveled, skin pale, dark half-circles deepening below her eyes. Not the polished surgeon from New York, not the girl who used to daydream about saving lives in spotless white wards. No—this was a battlefield medic, driven by adrenaline and fury. “This is not what I signed up for,” she snarled at her reflection. But her hands were fast, steady, precise. She had just restrapped her arm when the mansion shook. Boom. The floor shook. Then— RATATATATAT! Gunfire. Shouts. Screams. The house exploded. Annabel’s blood went cold. She flung open the bathroom door and sped into the bedroom. One maid was already across Pinky, covering her. The other clutched her rosary, mumbling desperate prayers. Luca burst through the door, gun up high, sweat sliding down his temple. “Down! They’re in!” he roared. Annabel’s breath caught. “Who’s in?!” “They breached the west wing. And they’re not here just for Raffaele this time.” Her gut twisted. She knew. She didn’t need him to say it. This wasn’t about the Don. This was about her. “Get her out of here!” Raffaele shouted, jamming a magazine into his pistol. His voice cracked like thunder. “Through the service tunnel—Luca, take her!” “No!” Annabel shouted back, fury sparking. “I’m not leaving Pinky!” “Guards!” he snapped, catching her arm, pulling her bodily toward the door. “They’re after you now, Annabel.” Her heart leapt. “What in the name of hell for?! I’m a doctor!” “You’re the doctor to my sister. You’re the only thing between life and death for her. That makes you bargaining power.” She spat another word in his face, but before she could, the wall behind them shuddered with a second explosion. The sound was deafening. Dust rained from the ceiling. They bolted. Luca led the charge down the corridor, shouting into his radio. The walls themselves seemed to warp under the strobe of gunfire beyond. Portraits shattered. Sconces tore from plaster. The mansion was a warzone. “I am not a fugitive!” Annabel snarled, her chest heaving. “No,” Raffaele growled back, “but tonight you’re the prize.” The words stabbed her like a knife. They reached the marble great hall. The doors were ripped wide—two guards dead on the threshold already. One of them had a bullet through the skull. Annabel’s legs buckled, but Raffaele urged her forward. “Don’t look. Go!” The courtyard stretched out before them, silver with moonlight. But the silence was a lie. A crack. The air whistled. Stone splintered inches from Annabel’s head. “Sniper!” Luca yelled, his own gun firing already at the rooftop. “Get down!” Raffaele screamed, throwing her hard behind the fountain. Her injured arm thudded against the stone. The shriek stuck in her throat. She spat blood. Raffaele crouched out from cover, shooting with uncontrolled fury. One, two, three shots. A shriek. A body slumped off the roof, crashing into the bushes with a sickening crack. “Clear!” Luca bellowed. “Move!” Raffaele shoved her forward again, yanking her toward the SUV. The armored vehicle came to life as its engine turned over, lights blinding across the courtyard. But as they reached it— A fusillade of bullets tore into the stone beside them, flashing off the fountain. The noise was deafening, a symphony of death. “Get in!” Raffaele shouted, shoving Annabel into the backseat. Luca jumped into the front, shooting back out the window as the SUV fishtailed out of the courtyard. A second vehicle came after—a caravan of Raffaele’s crew. Annabel cowered on the floor of the SUV, chest burning, ears ringing. “You could’ve been killed!” she croaked at him. Raffaele’s jaw was granite, his knuckles white on his gun. He didn’t say a word. Her voice broke, rage mounting over terror. “Why me?! Why do they want to kill me?!” Finally, his eyes flickered to hers, hard and deadly. “Because Mendoza knows what you are now. You’re not a doctor anymore. You’re my sister’s salvation. That makes you the one weapon I own worth fighting for. And the only one they have to use to kill me.” His words coiled in her heart like a blade. She opened her lips to reply— Then the glass beside her burst. Bullets ripped through the SUV. Tires screamed as the vehicle skidded. Luca swore, jerking the wheel. The convoy disintegrated. “Ambush!” he shouted. Annabel was pushed to one side, shoulder colliding with the seat. Ribs contracting in agony. She clutched at them—then went rigid. Heat. Her hand came out covered in crimson. A flush of scarlet spread over her ribs. She gasped, gagged, coughed vermilion. “Annabel!” Raffaele bellowed, sweeping her into his arms. His voice broke—hysterical, hoarse. “Don’t go away. Don’t go away!” Her universe blurred. Pain thudded in waves. The shriek of the engine faded. Only his voice remained. “I’ve got you. You saved my sister. I won’t let you go.” His hand covered her wound, futile against the flood. Her lips parted. She tried to speak. Tried to curse him. Tried to say something. But only blackness came out. Her body went limp against him. The SUV careened through the gates of another compound. Men screamed, lights strobed, and Luca was already calling the on-call medic on the radio. But Raffaele waited not. Did not trust. Did not care. He cradled her in his arms, her blood spreading on his chest, his face contorted by a desperation his foes had never seen. “Don’t go,” he whispered, trembling. “Not you. Not now.” Annabel’s lashes had once danced, then rested motionless. And darkness fell.
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