Chapter 3
Dario
The room smells like blood, and no amount of expensive cologne, polished wood, or the faint trace of cigar smoke that usually clings to this house can disguise it.
The metallic scent has settled over everything, thick enough that every breath reminds me of exactly what is happening in front of us.
Rico lies motionless on the bed, his skin far too pale against the dark sheets, his breathing shallow and uneven while the doctor works over him with a concentration that borders on ruthless.
The men lining the walls have gone unnaturally still, because they understand what I understand.
My brother is dying. I don't say the words aloud because there is no reason to give them power, and because every person in this room can see the truth written across the doctor's face.
“His pressure’s dropping again.”
Her voice cuts through the room, calm despite the urgency beneath it.
She doesn't look at me when she speaks, and she doesn't waste even a second acknowledging the men surrounding her.
Her entire world has narrowed to the man beneath her hands, and for reasons I haven't decided whether I admire or distrust, she refuses to be intimidated by anything else.
She was taken less than an hour ago, pulled from the life she knew and brought into ours without warning or explanation, and yet she hasn't broken.
She hasn't begged. She hasn't cried. She hasn't wasted time demanding to know where she is or what we've done with her.
She has simply assessed the situation and gone to work.
That is the only reason she is still breathing.
“Talk to me,” I say.
Her attention finally shifts toward me, and I catch the sharp intelligence in her eyes as she studies me with the same clinical assessment she gave Rico.
Most people who know the Litvin Bratva understand what my position means.
I am the third Litvin brother, the one responsible for the money that keeps our organization moving, and that responsibility has given me a reputation of its own.
I know where every dollar comes from, where it goes, and which men can be trusted with it.
It is a different kind of power than the authority my brothers carry, quieter but no less consequential.
She seems to recognize that much, yet there is no awe in her expression and certainly no fear strong enough to interfere with her judgment.
“He needs surgery,” she says. “Not stabilization. Not another temporary measure. Surgery.”
Giuseppe exhales sharply behind me, the sound carrying the frustration and helplessness he is trying desperately to conceal. He has spent the last hour watching his brother bleed, and I know exactly how much that is costing him. “Then do it.”
The doctor turns on him so quickly that even a few of the men along the walls shift their attention toward her.
“Not like this. I don't have what I need, and this isn't a surgical environment.
If you want me to operate on him, I need proper equipment, proper lighting, blood, medication, and a sterile room.
Otherwise, I'm working blind, and that's a liability none of us can afford.”
I raise one hand before Giuseppe can answer, and the room immediately quiets. “Then tell me what you need.”
Something changes in her expression. It isn't fear or relief, exactly. It's recognition, as though she has finally realized that when I ask a question, I expect an answer because I intend to act on it.
“There are things I can only get at a hospital,” she says carefully. “Specific instruments, medications, equipment. I need enough supplies to perform an emergency abdominal surgery, and I need them quickly.”
I let the silence sit between us for a moment while I study her.
She is asking me to bring a hospital into my house because my brother cannot survive long enough to reach one, and under any other circumstances, the request would be impossible.
Tonight, however, there is no such thing as impossible.
There is only what I am willing to take and how quickly I can get it.
“For me,” I tell her evenly, “there's nothing that's off limits.”
Her gaze remains fixed on mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and something unspoken passes between us.
She understands exactly what I've said. I am not promising cooperation.
I am promising results. If the equipment exists, I will find it.
If someone possesses it, they will give it to me.
If they refuse, I will find another way.
“I need a pen and paper.”
“Giuseppe.”
My brother is already moving before the word has fully left my mouth.
He returns moments later with what she requested, and she takes both without ceremony, lowering her attention to the page.
Her handwriting is fast and precise as she begins listing everything she needs, and I watch her face while she works.
There is no hesitation now. Whatever uncertainty she felt when she first entered this house has been replaced by the focus of a woman who knows exactly what she is doing.
Giuseppe takes the list when she finishes. His eyes move over it once before his jaw tightens.
“Get it,” I say.
He doesn't ask how. He doesn't ask where.
He simply nods and turns toward the door, already giving orders to the men waiting outside.
I watch him disappear down the hallway before turning my attention back to the room, because getting the equipment is only one part of the problem.
If the doctor is going to cut into Rico, we need somewhere she can do it.
“Clear the main floor,” I order. “Every room. I want the drawing room and the east dining room emptied immediately.”
The men move without hesitation. Furniture begins shifting almost before I've finished speaking, servants and soldiers alike responding to the orders being relayed through the house.
The drawing room will become a recovery space.
The dining room will become an operating room.
It doesn't matter that this house was never designed for surgery.
It doesn't matter that an hour ago those rooms were filled with people celebrating a wedding and now they are being stripped down for an emergency operation.
We have adapted to worse circumstances than this.
“Everything comes out,” I continue. “Furniture, rugs, anything that can hold dust. I want both rooms sanitized completely. Floors, walls, ceilings. If it can carry bacteria, it gets cleaned or replaced.”
One of the men nods and immediately starts relaying the instructions. I can hear the house changing around us, doors opening, furniture scraping across floors, footsteps multiplying as everyone moves with the urgency of people who understand that hesitation can become a death sentence.
“The dining room becomes the operating room,” I say. “Full setup. Lighting, tables, equipment, everything on that list the second it arrives. The drawing room becomes recovery. I want it prepared like a hospital room before we move him.”
There is something almost surreal about watching the transformation take place.
This house has been built around power, wealth, and control.
Tonight, all of that means nothing if we cannot keep one man alive.
We don't adjust to circumstances because we have no other choice.
We adjust because we refuse to let circumstances dictate the outcome.
My attention returns to the doctor. She is already working again, checking Rico's vitals and adjusting the pressure she is applying to the wound.
“The room next to the drawing room is yours,” I tell her. “You stay close to him.”
Her head comes up immediately. “No. I'm not staying here.”
The answer is so immediate that I almost smile. “You don't have a choice.”
“I have a life,” she snaps. “I have responsibilities. I have patients. I have rounds, and there are people at the hospital who are going to notice when I disappear.”
“The only thing you need to worry about right now is saving my brother.”
Her jaw tightens. I can see the anger building behind her eyes, but she doesn't step away from Rico, and that matters more to me than whether she likes my order. I step closer, lowering my voice until the threat behind it becomes impossible to misunderstand.
“If you don't, there will be consequences.”
The room goes quiet around us.
She stares at me, and for a moment I expect fear. Instead, I see defiance. It is a dangerous combination in a woman who has already proven she is capable of standing her ground around men who would make most people retreat.
Before either of us can say anything else, another voice enters the room.
“Dario.”
Kira steps through the doorway, and I turn toward her. She doesn't bother acknowledging the men or the blood or the chaos. Her attention goes straight to me, and there is something in her expression that tells me she has already heard enough to understand exactly what is happening.
“Threatening the doctor isn't going to make her work more efficiently,” she says calmly.
I hold her gaze.
Kira doesn't step into situations without a reason, and she has never been afraid to tell me when I'm making a mistake.
I glance back at the doctor, who is watching us both with that same guarded intelligence, and I know Kira is right.
Fear might force obedience, but it won't make this woman perform at her best. If I want Rico alive, I need her focused, not frightened.
Kira moves closer. “You want him alive? Then let her do her job.”
For several seconds, nobody speaks. I look at Rico, then at the doctor, and finally back at Kira. The decision isn't difficult. My brother's life comes before my pride.
I turn back to the doctor, and when I speak, my voice is quieter, but no less absolute. “You save him. Everything else comes after.”
She studies me for a moment, searching my face for something I have no intention of giving her.
Reassurance would be a lie. Freedom would be another.
What she will get from me is the truth: I will give her whatever she needs to keep my brother alive, and until that is accomplished, nothing else matters.
I turn toward the door, and Kira falls into step beside me.
Behind us, the room immediately erupts into motion again as the doctor returns her attention to Rico and the men begin transforming the house around them.
Orders echo through the halls, equipment is being gathered, rooms are being cleared, and somewhere downstairs Giuseppe is making certain that every item on that list reaches this house as quickly as possible.
I stop just outside the room and look back once.
Rico lies beneath the harsh light, surrounded by blood and strangers, fighting for every breath. My brother has always been difficult to kill. I intend to make sure he stays that way.
Because this is no longer a question of whether Rico survives.
It is a question of how far we are willing to go to make certain that he does.
And the answer has never changed.
There are no limits.