PART: TOO BRUISED TO STAND, THE MAFIA BOSS COLLAPSED—THEN HE BECAME MY FIRST HUMAN PATIENT

TOO BRUISED TO STAND, THE MAFIA BOSS COLLAPSED—THEN HE BECAME MY FIRST HUMAN PATIENT — PART 1

Just half a minute before I was supposed to lock up the clinic for the night, a heavy fist began hammering against the front door.

It was not a polite knock. It was frantic, violent, terrifying. The kind of sound that told my brain to run the other way.

My fingers stopped over the lock. Behind the frosted glass window, I saw a large, unsteady silhouette. The banging came again, softer this time, followed by a gut-wrenching groan that sent a chill down my spine.

“We’re closed,” I shouted, cursing the tremor in my own voice. “The emergency room is 15 miles up the highway.”

“Please,” a muffled voice begged from the other side. “They’ll kill me if I go there.”

My duty as a healer battled hard against basic survival instinct. I was isolated in the Oregon countryside at 10:45 on a Tuesday night, completely alone. Still, the raw panic in his tone sounded genuine. It was not manipulation. It was a plea for life.

I turned the handle and opened the door.

A

giant of a man pitched forward, and I barely managed to hold him up. My 113-pound frame struggled against a man who was easily 6’3” and built like a tank. Crimson stained a pristine white dress shirt that looked expensive enough to cover my lease. His face was pale beneath olive skin, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jumping there.

“Inside,” I managed, dragging him through the doorway. “Now.”

He stumbled forward, 1 hand pressed against his left shoulder where crimson bloomed like a grotesque flower. His other hand caught the exam table, his knuckles white with effort.

Up close, I could see the details my panic had missed. The shirt was not just expensive. It was custom. His pants were tailored to perfection despite being splattered with mud and blood. Even his shoes screamed money, Italian leather destroyed by whatever hell he had walked through

to reach my door.

“Sit,” I ordered, already moving to the supply cabinet. “Don’t pass out yet. I need information first.”

“Bullet,” he said through gritted teeth. “Left shoulder. Through and through, I think.”

I froze with my hands on the antibiotic bottles. “You think?”

“Hard to check when you’re running.”

His eyes met mine for the first time. Ice blue, startling against his dark hair and the blood.

“You’re a doctor?”