Chapter 4
FOUR
Doc
My third phone on the counter buzzed, and Marisol glanced at it, her lips thin.
She hated the jobs I took on during daylight hours, but hell, I charged a premium for them, and my money kept her and the kids safe, so I ignored her.
By the time I reached the car, my phone buzzed again—a message: Knife wound. Redcars.
I hesitated—maybe I should skip this one.
They saw too much at that place, and what if they saw through the cracks?
What if they saw the real me?
“Fuck it,” I muttered. Money was money, and if I had to go to freaking Redcars again, I’d add on a premium.
Last time, I’d left with blood under my nails and the smell of burned flesh in my clothes, and it hadn’t washed out for days.
Redcars was where lines blurred fast and stayed that way, and every time I went back, I told myself it would be the last. I typed back, Fifteen K call-out, then sent the money request through one of my ghost accounts.
It was accepted immediately—no questions, no delay, which probably meant they had Killian around with his wealthy lawyer shtick.
Money ruled the world I lived in, and this was another deposit into the twins’ college fund.
“Do you have to go?” Marisol asked. She was stirring some soap concoction on the stove that smelled of lemon, and the fragrance filled the entire house. She’d made a life here—a lonely one aside from the kids, but a good one.
“It’s a quick one,” I lied. I actually had no idea what I’d be walking into. I’d been to Redcars far too often, beatings, burns, virgin-Robbie and his PTSD… I’d seen it all.
Sliding behind the wheel, I started the engine and checked the mirrors, then pulled out onto the street, leaving the quiet suburb behind and heading into the city.
I parked a block away from Redcars, engine off, scanning the street.
Habit—automatic, ingrained, and impossible to shut off even when I told myself I was safe.
I checked the syringe mechanism at my wrist, the gun in the holster, and then the knife in its sheath.
With my medical bag over my shoulder, I stepped out, my head on a swivel.
The alley behind Redcars was slick with oil and rainwater, a patchwork of light and dark.
Dumpsters lined one side, graffiti on the walls, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled.
I had that feeling I was being watched again, and I almost stepped away, but then the back door burst open, and Robbie-the-virgin appeared—eyes wide, movements frantic.
Where was Enzo? That man was Robbie’s insanely hyper-vigilant bodyguard, and I tensed when I didn’t see him.
Robbie was shouting at me in a panicked tone.
“Upstairs!” he yelled. “It’s Rio! Doc! It’s Rio!
” Robbie gestured for me to go up. His face was tight with panic, his voice gone, so I didn’t waste time asking questions.
I took the stairs two at a time, my boots echoing off the metal.
Enzo was at the top, his stance wide, his expression carved in stone, but his eyes—those gave him away.
Worry, anger, fear—just another morning at Redcars.
I pushed past him, shoulder-first through the door.
My mind was already cataloging what I’d need—pressure packs, gauze, maybe sutures, how deep a knife wound would it have to be to slow man-mountain Rio down.
Routine. Cold calculation. I was halfway through the mental checklist when the door slammed behind me.
I stopped dead. No blood. No Rio.
Just a stranger in the middle of the room.
A stranger with a badge on his belt.
Cop. Dangerous.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His blond hair was cut short on the sides but too long on top, curling slightly where sweat or rain had touched it.
His eyes—brown—his gaze cutting straight through me, assessing every inch.
A rough shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and he wore a suit, creased from what I assumed were hours doing whatever cops did to get them here this early in the day, the jacket open enough to show that damn badge clipped to his belt.
A gun hung easily from his hand, and every inch of him radiated danger and control—feral in its intensity, a hunter’s focus locked on prey, a magnetic pull I would’ve liked far too much if I wasn’t aware of exactly who he was and exactly what I was.
“Hands where I can see them!” the cop snapped, and I made a show of holding my hands in front of me.
He gestured toward the chair with the gun, the movement steady, unhurried.
“Sit down,” he said. His voice was calm, collected, not a hint of strain or threat—just command. That unwavering gaze locked on me.
I sat because, in sitting, I could reach my knife and throw it between his eyes before he could flinch.
I sat because I could lean a certain way, so my gun stayed accessible.
I sat because, although I had a million choices that would end with him on his back bleeding out, I wanted to know what the fuck was going on.
He gestured with the gun again, slow and deliberate. “Doc?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me about Kyle Rourke,” he said.
“Who?” I asked, my voice flat, emotionless. I knew exactly who Kyle Rourke was, but I wasn’t about to confirm any of that.
“We have you on surveillance at the Pit. He fought there, and you attended him. Goes by the name of Red.”
“And by surveillance, you mean Rio’s camera phone?” No point in lying now, after all, Rio had been there. “Red… hmmm… tall skinny red hair. Got himself hurt badly. My friends helped get him to St. Patrick’s Hospital.” I sat back in the chair, keeping my posture loose.
His stare didn’t falter, his gaze steady.
Then, right in front of me, he shifted—the change so smooth it was like watching the man shed his cop skin.
He dragged a chair across the floor and sat opposite me, gun in his hands, elbows on his knees, eyes still locked on mine, his hands steady, his posture straight, his breathing controlled.
I guess that Enzo was right outside the door, so I wasn’t going anywhere soon, and there was something raw about this cop.
I wanted to touch him to see if he was real, but it wasn’t warmth or hunger—surely it was curiosity, the pull of symmetry, the fascination of finding something so finely tuned it reflected me at myself.
I wanted to take him apart, understand him, see what made him tick. Recognition. Possession. Control.
This was new.
The hell?
“Virgin-Robbie is a good actor,” I said to make conversation, flexing my wrist where the hypodermic sat, ensuring I was one step ahead of whoever the fuck this cop was. “Said Rio was hurt. You all paid me and everything, and you’re not getting the money back.”
“Why did you carve up Kyle Rourke?” the cop asked.
“Hmmm…” The cop thought I’d killed Red and carved him up? “If you think I did that, then why am I not being arrested?”
The silence stretched, and he watched me, probably waiting for me to break the silence. My skin prickled, but I didn’t move, didn’t blink. The tick of a distant pipe dripping somewhere filled the gap between us until finally, he spoke, voice flat.
“Did you murder Kyle Rourke?”
“I think you’ll find a big Russian was the one hurting him.”
“But he died in your care.”
I wasn’t happy with the way he spat out the word care as if it tasted like shit. I kept people alive when possible. “No, he didn’t.”
“Who dumped Red’s body?” He let the question hang, eyes sliding over me from head to toe, and back again. “You?”
“I don’t have anything to add,” I said, voice flat, nonchalant.
The cop’s lips twitched—something between disbelief and irritation. Then he turned his phone around, screen glowing in the dim light. A paused phone video timestamped from the warehouse. My face—clear as day—caught mid-motion tending to Kyle Rourke.
“You were there for the fight,” he said, tone calm and deliberate.
“I just stumbled into a brawl. Wrong place, wrong night.” Then I shrugged. “Oh no—my bad.” The sarcasm rolled easily off my tongue.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. “We have footage of you working on Red after he was knocked out.”
“And?” I asked, amusement curling through my words.
His jaw tightened, the faintest crack in his composure. Shoulders squared, chin lifted. He was tense now—ready and controlled, discipline against fury—and it thrilled me.
This cop was all banked fire and potential, and it was delicious.
“What made you cut him up?” he continued. “Are you tied to a cartel? Feeding them spare parts from victims?”
I felt something cold twist low in my gut at the word cartel—a flash of heat behind my ribs and old ghosts snapping their teeth just under my skin.
Raven’s voice echoed in my head. Keep the heart going.
Keep the product alive—value or waste. I huffed a short laugh, the kind that sounded amused but held no warmth.
Change the subject before I lose my shit.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?” There was a wildness in his dark eyes that I wanted to understand, and it gave me something other than cartels and carved-up bodies to focus on.
“The fuck?” he snapped.
“Your name?” I asked again, wondering if he’d let me have that much.
He snarled at me. “Detective Rosen. Yours?”
I wasn’t falling for that shit. “Doc,” I said and let the silence stretch, studying him as he gestured into the corners where cameras caught our exchange.
“We’ll know your name soon enough.”
I grinned. “Are you threatening an innocent man, Detective Rosen?” His eye twitched. “Go on then,” I whispered. “Ask your next question before you lose your nerve.”
“Why did you kill Kyle Rourke?” he repeated.
“And I already said I didn’t.” I sat back, studying him. “When Red left my care, he was alive and kicking. And screaming. Yeah, there was a lot of screaming, but he was definitely alive.”
Detective Rosen was silent for a long moment, then, with a cold, measured tone, he finally spoke. “Want to tell me how he turns up dead with kidneys and liver surgically removed and eyes taken post-mortem?”
I studied him for a long moment, my gaze flicking from his fingers to his lips and back again—eyes removed post-mortem.
The phrase stuck. Eyes were almost useless once the blood stopped moving.
The corneas cloud fast, the vitreous starts to break down, and within hours, they’re little more than pale jelly.
Unless someone had been quick—within twelve hours, tops, and in a chilled environment—those eyes wouldn’t fetch a damn thing.
No transplant, no black-market use. But the rest?
The kidneys, liver—that was a different game.
My mind ticked through the details. I felt anger slide in—quiet, controlled, not the kind that burned but the kind that cut deep.
Had Novak gone rogue? We had a deal. He and his team took the injured to the hospital, and the deceased to their designated disposal sites.
No comeback on me, no experimenting, no stripping, no reselling parts.
That was the rule. No fucking with a corpse.
I might not care about much, but the desecration of one of my patients without my authority made me look sloppy.
It wasn’t morality; it was order. I kept the system clean, or everything rotted from the inside.
Had Novak and his team broken that deal?
“As I said, Detective, he was alive when I last saw him, and my instructions were clear that he was to be taken to the nearest emergency room.”
Now it was the cop’s turn to smirk. “Uh oh, your cleaners fucked you over.”
My laugh came out short and harsh. “Looks that way, huh?” I said, covering the heat growing in my belly.
My tone stayed calm, controlled fury curling inside me—I didn’t do rage, I calculated.
Whoever thought they could turn one of my patients into a parts buffet—they’d just signed their own death warrant.
Someone had broken the rules, fucked with the order I’d built, and that was a problem I would pay to have fixed. Slowly.
Novak may well be my pet psychopath—useful, predictable, violent—but if he’d stepped out of line, then I’d need someone even meaner to put him down. Fuck. Did such a person exist?
He moved forward a fraction, gaze on me. “You think it’s funny?”
“It kinda is?” I said. “Bodies, bets, bullshit—someone always screws someone. Keeps the game interesting, right?” I tilted my head, eyes on him as he calculated his next move.
“Say I believe that you weren’t the one carving him up.”
“Go on.”
“Then how about you give me the names of the cleaners who removed Rourke from your care?”
What I wouldn’t give to see the temper in him all over his pretty face. I bet he’d look beautiful spitting and hissing and trying to kill me.
“That I can’t do,” I said and shrugged. He was not getting that information from me. “I guess we’re at an impasse, Detective?” I said when it was clear we were going to be sitting and staring at each other.
I could see him thinking, weighing his next move.
He wasn’t rattled, wasn’t posturing—he was processing, calculating.
That kind of composure intrigued me. I’d seen men break under less, men fold the moment control slipped.
But this one? He was built differently. Watching him think was like watching a blade being sharpened—quiet, focused, dangerous.
And the stillness in him made me want to test how far it could go before it cut back.
Yep. Delicious.