Chapter 1
The eight-year-old's abdomen is torn open when the gurney crashes through the trauma bay doors. Her scared eyes find mine across the chaos—wide, trusting, begging me to fix what the world broke.
My hands move without conscious thought, years of training taking over.
"What do we have?" I bark, fingers already checking pulse points.
"Multi-vehicle collision, penetrating abdominal trauma, possible internal bleeding." The paramedic rattles off vitals as we transfer her to the table. Her whimper cuts through the controlled chaos of Chicago General's emergency room.
My jaw clenches. Phantom fire races through my wrists—sharp, sudden. For a split second, the beeping monitors become mortar fire, the smell of disinfectant becomes sand and blood.
But I'm not helpless now.
"OR two, now." The team falls into formation around me. This is what I do. This is what I'm good for.
The surgery takes thirty-nine minutes. Clean entry wound, minimal organ damage, textbook repair. The girl's vitals stabilize as I close. One saved. One more debt paid to the dead.
"That was incredible, Dr. Reyes!"
The voice belongs to Dr. Whitman, third-year resident, perpetually cheerful in a way that makes my teeth hurt. She bounces on her heels beside me as I strip off my gloves, her enthusiasm radiating like a physical force.
"The way you handled that hepatic laceration? I've never seen anyone work that fast. Could you maybe show me that suturing technique sometime? I've been practicing, but—"
"It's in the textbook."
"Right, but seeing it in person is so different! The way your hands moved—it was like watching an artist. Do you have any tips for—"
"Yes. Stop talking."
Her smile falters for exactly two seconds before rebounding with the resilience of someone who thinks persistence is a virtue. "Oh! Sorry, I know you're busy. Maybe we could grab coffee later and—"
"No."
"Or lunch? The cafeteria has this new—"
I turn to face her fully, letting her see exactly how much her cheerfulness grates against my nerves. "Dr. Whitman, the patient is stable. The procedure is complete. Your education is not my priority."
She blinks, that relentless optimism finally dimming. "I was just trying to—"
"Try somewhere else."
I brush past her toward the sink, starting my ritual. Hot water, surgical soap, scrub each finger methodically. The routine grounds me. I'm here, not there. I'm saving lives, not watching them slip away.
"Dr. Reyes." The charge nurse appears, clipboard in hand. "We need you to brief the family."
"Morrison can handle it."
"The family specifically asked for you. And Administrator Coleman wants to see you about the Rudd complaint."
Christ. "The patient who wanted aromatherapy during trauma surgery?"
"The one whose feelings you hurt when you said, and I quote, 'essential oils won't stop internal bleeding.'"
I turn back to the sink and start washing again. Hot water, surgical soap, methodical scrubbing.
"You just washed."
"Missed a spot."
We both know it's a lie. But the washing helps. I scrub each finger, each nail bed, until my skin is raw.
"Van." Her voice softens. "The girl is stable. You saved her."
I dry my hands and head for the administrator's office, already knowing how this will go. Another lecture about patient satisfaction scores, another reminder that healing involves more than surgical precision.
Coleman's office smells like fake leather and ambition. She sits behind a desk too large for someone who's never held a scalpel, her smile as practiced as a politician's.
"Dr. Reyes, thank you for coming." She gestures to a chair I don't take. "We need to discuss your patient interaction scores."
"My surgical success rate is ninety-four percent."
"Your bedside manner score is twelve percent."
"Patients don't need a friend. They need a surgeon."
She shuffles papers, a gesture meant to convey authority. "Mr. Rudd filed a formal complaint. He says you were dismissive and rude when he asked about alternative therapies."
"He wanted to burn sage while I removed shrapnel from his lung."
"You could have been more diplomatic."
"Diplomacy doesn't save lives. Competence does."
Coleman's smile tightens. "Dr. Reyes, you're an exceptional surgeon. No one disputes that. But this hospital values patient satisfaction as much as surgical outcomes."
"Then this hospital has confused priorities."
"That attitude is exactly the problem." She leans forward, trying for stern but achieving anxious. "You need to make an effort. Smile occasionally. Show empathy. Pretend you care about something besides the procedure."
"I care about keeping people alive."
"That's not enough anymore."
I look at her—really look. Soft hands that have never felt life slip away beneath them. Eyes that have never watched someone bleed out while you're helpless to stop it. She talks about satisfaction scores while I count lives saved against lives lost, a tally that never balances.
"Are we done?"
"Dr. Reyes—"
"I have post-ops to check."
I leave without waiting for dismissal. Coleman will complain to the chief, the chief will remind everyone I have the best surgical stats in the hospital, and nothing will change. It's a dance we do every few months, pretending bedside manner matters more than the ability to stop someone from dying.
Back in the trauma bay, I check on the girl. Still stable, vitals strong. The family hovers near her bed—mother crying, father standing guard, older brother trying to look brave. They see me and rush over, gratitude spilling out in broken English and rapid Spanish.
"Thank you, doctor, thank you—"
"She's stable. The repair went well. She'll need monitoring for infection, but the prognosis is good."
The mother grabs my hand, tears streaming. "You saved our baby. You're an angel—"
I extract my hand. "I'm a surgeon. She'll be moved to pediatric ICU within the hour. The nurses will update you."
Their faces fall slightly at my tone, but I'm already walking away. They wanted their daughter alive, not a friend. Mission accomplished.
My phone buzzes as I strip off my scrubs. Unknown New York number, but I recognize the exchange.
"Reyes."
"I have an assignment for you." Dom Rosetti's voice carries weight—the kind that comes from owning half of Chicago's legitimate businesses and all of its shadows.
"What kind of assignment?"
"Protection detail. My sister needs watching."
I lean back against the wall. Another cheerful optimist who needs reality delivered bluntly. Perfect. "How long?"
"Indefinitely. She's… headstrong. Gives her security the slip regularly. Two of our competitors are already asking questions about her whereabouts."
Of course she does. Rich girls always think daddy's reputation makes them untouchable.
"Where is she now?"
"On her way to Chicago. She thinks she can walk away from who she is."
"You want me to what, exactly? Drag her home?"
"Keep her alive while she figures out the world isn't as safe as she thinks. Consider it educational."
"Payment?"
"This squares us, Van. Full debt."
The words lift weight off my shoulders. Three years of owing the Rosetti family for things that don't officially exist. When the military threw me away, Dom picked up the pieces. Now one babysitting job would clear the slate.
"I'll need details on current threats."
"Everything will be ready. Van? She's not a Rosetti like the rest of us. She's soft. That's what makes her dangerous to herself."
He gives me a Lincoln Park address before hanging up.
Dr. Whitman appears again as I head for the exit, her cheerfulness apparently made of titanium.
"Dr. Reyes! I just wanted to apologize if I was too pushy earlier. I'm just really passionate about learning and—"
"Are you always like this?"
She blinks. "Like what?"
"Happy."
"I… yes? I mean, we're saving lives. How can you not be happy about that?"
I stare at her, this bright young thing who still thinks the world rewards good intentions and positive attitudes.
In six months, maybe a year, she'll learn.
The job will teach her what it teaches everyone—that saving lives means carrying the weight of the ones you couldn't save, that every success is temporary, that happiness is a luxury you can't afford when death is always winning.
"Give it time," I tell her, and walk away.
My apartment feels more sterile than usual when I step inside. I check the locks—one, two, three times—before heading to the bedroom closet.
I pull my go-bag and start packing. Clean clothes, first aid supplies, backup phone, tactical gear. Everything organized, everything in its place.
My hand brushes the false panel in the back of the closet as I reach for extra magazines. Behind this wall is the room I built in the months after arriving in Chicago, when the nightmares were worse and control meant something different.
I close the panel and finish packing.
Dom's word echoes: headstrong. A princess who thinks she can handle herself, who gives professional security the slip, who doesn't understand that some battles can't be won with money and attitude. Probably smiles too much, talks too much, expects the world to bend to her sunshine.
I've handled difficult people before. Combat zones are full of soldiers who think they know better than their medic, who fight treatment while bleeding out. The key is establishing dominance early—making clear who's in control.
But this won't be a battlefield casualty grateful to be alive. This will be someone used to getting her way, who sees protection as imprisonment and authority as something to challenge. Someone who probably shares Dr. Whitman's belief that enthusiasm can overcome reality.
The Chicago heat hits me when I step outside, thick with humidity that makes breathing feel like work. July in this city is miserable—the kind of heat that makes people stupid and reckless, that turns minor disagreements into violence.
I head for the airport, already calculating. Professional distance, tactical assessment, controlled environment. Make her understand that cooperation isn't negotiable when her life is at stake.
She'll learn that handling herself is a luxury she can't afford. And I'll teach her the difference between thinking you're in control and actually being protected.
One spoiled princess who probably thinks a smile solves everything.
I can handle that. I can handle anything that doesn't require pretending to be happy about it.