Breeding Justice

9. Chapter Nine Zane

Chapter Nine: Zane

I groaned, clutching my side, the sharp sting cutting through the fog of disorientation. The gunshot hadn’t killed me, but I wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t finish the job eventually. The hospital had patched me up, but I’d checked myself out too soon. The idea of being confined there while Justice, Skylar, and Bash were out there wasn’t an option.

The flight to New York with Hassan and SJ had only made things worse. Turbulence, tight spaces, and constant movement had jostled the stitches in my side. Every jolt had felt like a hammer against my ribs, each shift a reminder that I’d left recovery behind in the name of desperation. Now I was paying for it.

I sat up carefully, grimacing at the wet warmth seeping through the bandage. I flicked on the bedside lamp, squinting against the sudden brightness. The room was a sparse guest room in Dante Moretti’s penthouse, tidy but impersonal. I’d insisted Hassan and SJ take the living room, even though I knew SJ’s toddler kicks would keep Hassan awake all night. They hadn’t argued—Hassan seemed too exhausted, SJ too innocent to notice the tension in the air. Still, guilt gnawed at me. I was useless to them like this.

Carefully, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the motion pulled at the stitches. The room was dark, save for the soft glow of city lights filtering through the blinds. I glanced toward the door, listening for any sign of movement. Hassan and SJ were in the living room, and the last thing I wanted was to wake them. SJ needed rest, and Hassan…well, Hassan had his own wounds to nurse.

I’d meant to be stronger than this, to keep my pain silent and invisible. But the truth was, the physical pain didn’t bother me as much as the weight of what came next.

I stood slowly, pressing a hand to my side to steady the pain, and made my way to the guest bathroom down the hall. The apartment was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made every creak of the floorboards sound louder. I flicked on the bathroom light, squinting as the harsh brightness flooded the small space.

Pulling off my shirt, I surveyed the damage in the mirror. Blood seeped from the torn stitches, the wound angry and red.

Fantastic. Just fucking fantastic. I wanted to punch something, but that would only make it worse.

I sighed, reaching for the first aid kit Dante had left under the sink. Antiseptic, gauze, needle, thread—everything I needed was there. I couldn’t help but smirk bitterly. Only Dante Moretti would keep a first aid kit better stocked than a hospital crash cart. It was the kind of detail that said everything about the man—control, preparedness, the expectation of violence.

I opened the small first aid kit Dante Moretti had stocked—of course he’d have a good one, given the company he kept. Antiseptic, gauze, needle, thread—it was all there. The tools of my trade, though this wasn’t exactly an ideal operating theater.

I threaded the needle with practiced ease, dousing it in antiseptic. Suturing yourself wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t the first time I’d done it. You learned to adapt in this life, or you didn’t last long.

As I pierced the needle through my skin, the sharp pain made my breath hitch. I gritted my teeth, keeping my movements steady. Each stitch was precise, the kind of work I could do in my sleep—just not on myself.

“Need a hand?”

The voice startled me, and I turned sharply, hissing as the sudden movement tugged at the half-finished stitch. Jade stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. One hand rested on her swollen belly, and her sharp gaze was fixed on the needle in my hand.

“I’ve got it,” I said, biting back the pain. “Go back to bed.”

She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re stitching yourself up. That’s not exactly a normal midnight activity.”

I turned back to the mirror, focusing on the next stitch. “It is for me.”

Jade didn’t move, her presence unnerving but not unwelcome. “You sure you don’t need help?”

“I’m sure.” I pulled the thread taut, wincing as the skin pulled together. “But if you’ve got a mirror that isn’t attached to a wall, that’d make this a lot easier.”

She hesitated, then disappeared down the hall. I let out a slow breath, pressing a piece of gauze to the fresh stitch. A moment later, she returned, holding a small handheld mirror.

“Here,” she said, placing it on the counter.

“Thanks,” I muttered, adjusting it to get a better angle. She stayed in the doorway, watching as I continued.

“You’ve done this before,” she said after a beat.

“More times than I’d like,” I replied, focusing on the next stitch. Her tone was probing but not judgmental, a combination that made it easier to keep talking. “You’re pretty calm for someone watching this.”

“I’m a geneticist,” she said simply. “Blood doesn’t bother me.”

I tied off the last stitch and sat back, exhaling slowly. “A geneticist, huh?”

“Not a doctor,” she clarified, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “But I know enough to tell you that you should’ve stayed in bed. You’re a doctor, though, right?”

“Am I that predictable? Yeah. I’m a surgeon.”

“You have the hands for it. What happened?”

“Someone shot me,” I said. “I had to have surgery and now I’m hoping my liver is going to just grow back. I just got lucky.”

Her gaze sharpened, catching on the word “lucky.” The tension in her posture said she didn’t buy it. “Sure doesn’t sound like it.”

Jade cocked her head, her eyes narrowing. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I said. “Shit, sorry. I think I got blood on your mirror.”

“I can wash that,” Jade said, stepping into the bathroom. “You have more prescient things to worry about.”

That was true. “What was your question?”

“What’s the surgeon-to-gangster pipeline?” she asked. “Or are you a surgeon because you’re from a mafia family and they needed a doctor?”

I chuckled despite the dull throb in my side. “Not quite. I didn’t grow up in the life, if that’s what you’re asking. I became a surgeon because I was good at it. Got pulled into all this because…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “Because people I care about needed me.”

Jade handed me a clean towel, her expression thoughtful. “So, you’re not the kind of guy who gets dragged into a gunfight willingly, then?”

I shrugged, dabbing at the fresh stitches with the towel. “Depends on who I’m dragging myself in for.”

“Are they the reason you’re in it? Hassan, the baby?”

I took a second to think. “No,” I said. “They’re family. And Justice and Skylar and Bash are family too.”

I didn’t think she needed to know that Justice was my girlfriend and that Skylar was my boyfriend. It was none of her business, but it was also a complicated thing to explain—something that I had a hard time even wrapping my own head around.

“Many years ago, I was going out with this man. Everett.” My voice was quieter now, the weight of the memory making it harder to continue. “It was serious. I loved him. But he had a life I knew nothing about, and one day, someone shot him. He came to my emergency room. My hospital. One of my coworkers told me he was dead as my shift ended. I left the ER and Bash was there. He offered me weed. We smoked together on the worst night of my life… I don’t know where I would be without him.”

Jade’s eyes widened, and for a moment, the sharp wit in her expression softened into something more human. “Well, shit,” she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine surprise.

I gave her a small, tired smile. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

She leaned against the bathroom doorframe, her hand absently resting on her belly. “So, this guy, Bash…he pulled you into all of this?”

“Not exactly,” I said, adjusting the fresh bandage over my side. “He didn’t ask me to do anything. But when you love someone, really love them, you find yourself doing things you never thought you would. At first, I just wanted to keep him alive. He needed a man of my skills. Then Skylar got involved, then Hassan. Then Justice…before I knew it, they weren’t just patients. They were my life.”

Jade nodded slowly, like she understood more than she let on. “It sounds…messy. And dangerous.”

“It is,” I admitted. “But I can’t imagine walking away from it now. Not when they need me.”

“And now there’s a toddler in the mix.” She tilted her head, her gaze steady. “That’s a lot of people depending on you, Zane.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “Tell me about it.”

Her smirk returned, though it was gentler this time. “Sounds like you’re the glue holding everyone together.”

“More like duct tape,” I muttered. “Barely holding, but good enough for now. But you get it, don’t you? You’re a geneticist ? And you’re pregnant with Dante Moretti’s baby?”

She didn’t answer right away, and the silence stretched just long enough to make me glance up at her. Her gaze was fixed somewhere past me, her expression unreadable.

Jade’s hand lingered on her belly, her gaze distant. “You’re giving me too much credit,” she said finally, her voice quiet but steady. “I didn’t know what I was getting into. Not even close.”

I raised an eyebrow, letting her continue.

“I knew Dante was… different,” she said, her words deliberate. “But I thought ‘different’ meant intense, maybe secretive. I didn’t think it meant… this.” She gestured vaguely, as though encompassing the entire surreal situation: the danger, the blood, the alliances.

“But you still…I mean, look, I’m prying. You’re an adult. Your family planning is none of my business.”

“He’s really good in bed,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

I nodded. “Yeah, that absolutely tracks. And now?”

She glanced down at her swollen belly, her expression softening in a way that caught me off guard. “Now I’ve got a kid on the way with a man who scares the hell out of most people, and I’m sitting here watching you stitch yourself up like it’s a normal Tuesday night.”

I couldn’t help the faint chuckle that escaped me, despite the dull throb in my side. “Sounds like you’ve adjusted.”

“That’s a word for it,” she said. “I’m learning to live with it. I don’t know. I never expected to end up here, in this life, but leaving doesn’t feel like an option anymore. Not with…” Her hand rested protectively over her belly again, her words trailing off.

“You’re in too deep,” I said, and she nodded.

“Aren’t we all?” she countered, a sharpness returning to her voice. “You’re a surgeon. You didn’t sign up for this either, did you?”

“No,” I admitted. “I guess, at this point, it doesn’t matter. It’s just about what I can’t walk away from.”

Her gaze was piercing now, as if she was trying to peel back my defenses and see what was underneath. “And you really believe that? That staying is the only choice?”

“I believe,” I said slowly, “that when you care about people, you do what you have to. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s dangerous. You just…do.”

Jade studied me for a long moment before nodding, as though some unspoken understanding had passed between us. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess you do.”

The quiet stretched between us, heavier than before. I flexed my hand, feeling the phantom pulse of adrenaline I couldn’t afford to act on—not yet. Not until I had all of them back. Not until this was over.

Jade shifted against the doorframe, her expression softening for the first time. “You can’t save everyone, you know. Sometimes…sometimes you just can’t.”

The words struck something raw in me, something I didn’t let surface often. “Maybe not. But I can try.”

Before she could respond, the faint vibration of my phone rattled against the bathroom counter. I grabbed it, glancing at the screen. The number was blocked. My stomach clenched.

Jade’s eyes flicked to the phone, then to me. “Do you think—?”

“I don’t know,” I said, cutting her off as I swiped to answer.

“Silva,” the voice on the other end spat my name like a curse. It wasn’t Skylar. It wasn’t anyone I knew. “You’re already too late.”

The line clicked dead before I could say a word.

I stood there, frozen, the phone still pressed to my ear. The blood pounding in my head drowned out the quiet of the apartment. Jade’s voice broke through like a distant echo.

“What?” she asked, stepping closer. “What did they say?”

I lowered the phone slowly, my hand gripping it hard enough to hurt. “They’re making their next move.”

Her brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not waiting for them to finish it,” I said, my voice low, cold. The promise tasted like steel in my mouth. “I’m getting them back. All of them. And if anyone stands in my way…” I met her gaze, unflinching. “They’re not walking away.”