Chapter 5
Olivia
There is a moment in every critical case when the world narrows until there is nothing left except the patient, the problem, and the seconds disappearing between them.
The room can be crowded with people, filled with movement and noise, but none of it matters once my attention locks onto the body beneath my hands.
Every sound becomes distant. Every face becomes peripheral.
My mind begins calculating what can still be done, what has already been lost, and how much time remains before the difference between saving someone and losing them becomes irreversible.
I have lived inside that moment more times than I can count, but this is different because there is no trauma team waiting for me, no properly equipped operating room, no anesthesiologist standing at my shoulder, no blood bank or imaging department or row of specialists ready to respond when I call for them.
There is only Rico, pale and frighteningly still beneath my hands, the warmth of his blood beneath my gloves, and a room full of men who look at me as though the next decision I make will determine whether one of their own walks out of this house alive.
“His pressure is crashing,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as urgency tightens every muscle in my body. “I need more light and something stable to elevate his legs. A chair will work if that’s all you have.”
The response is immediate. One of the men moves toward the far side of the room while another disappears through the doorway, and within seconds a heavy chair is dragged into position beside the bed.
I barely acknowledge it before reaching for my medical bag.
What catches my attention is not the efficiency itself but the way these men respond to my instructions without hesitation.
They are clearly accustomed to being the ones who give orders, yet no one questions me, challenges me, or asks whether I am certain.
They simply move because they understand something that has become brutally clear to everyone in this room: whatever their hierarchy is, whatever rules govern this house, Rico's life currently depends on me.
“Gloves,” I order as I open my bag. “Sterile if you have them. If you don't, bring me the cleanest ones available.”
A box lands beside my hand almost immediately.
I tear it open, pull the gloves over my fingers, and force myself to ignore the tremor beginning in my hands.
It isn't fear. At least, that is what I tell myself.
It is exhaustion, adrenaline, and the pressure of knowing that every decision I make has consequences.
If I allow myself even a moment to think about where I am, who these people are, or what they have done to me, I risk losing the concentration I need to keep Rico alive, and I refuse to let that happen.
I turn my attention back to the wound and examine everything I can without imaging.
The entry wound is obvious, but there is no exit wound, which tells me exactly what I do not want to know.
The bullet is still inside him, and whatever damage it has caused is continuing beneath the surface where I cannot see it.
His blood loss is significant, his pressure is falling, and the pressure I am applying is doing little more than buying us time.
Minutes, perhaps less. I press harder, watching his face for any indication that he is slipping farther away from me, and the curse escapes before I can stop it.
“Damn it.”
“Talk to me.”
Dario's voice comes from behind me, calm enough to be infuriating.
I glance over my shoulder and find him exactly where I expected, watching with that same unnerving stillness he has carried since I was brought into this room.
He doesn't pace or shout, and he doesn't allow the fear that must be somewhere beneath the surface to show on his face.
Instead, he watches me with an intensity that makes me feel as though I am being assessed just as carefully as Rico is being treated.
“The bullet didn't pass through,” I tell him as I return my attention to Rico. “The damage is internal, and I can't determine the full extent of it without imaging or surgery. Right now, I'm trying to control the bleeding enough to keep him alive until we can operate.”
“How long?”
I hate the question because there is no honest answer that will make anyone in this room feel better. I glance at the monitor, then back at Rico, and make the only answer I can.
“I don't know.”
The silence that follows is immediate and heavy. I can feel the weight of every person in the room waiting for me to say something that will make this less frightening, but medicine doesn't work that way. There are moments when certainty is a luxury, and this is one of them.
“I need fluids,” I continue, keeping my voice controlled as I work. “I need someone monitoring his pressure continuously, and if you have blood available, I need to know what type and how much. If you don't have compatible blood, tell me now so I can adjust what I'm doing.”
“We have it,” one of the men answers.
“Then bring it.”
He leaves immediately.
I keep my hands where they are, maintaining pressure while my mind works through every possibility.
In a hospital, this would already have become a coordinated effort.
Someone would be drawing blood, someone else would be preparing fluids, another person would be calling the operating room, and a team would already be moving toward the next stage before I had to ask.
Here, I have to create that system around myself while simultaneously keeping a man alive with limited equipment and no certainty that the resources I need will arrive before his body gives up.
But the men are listening.
That matters.
I can see it in the way they move when I speak and in the sudden quiet that follows every instruction.
They may not trust me, and I certainly don't trust them, but they understand that Rico's life is currently dependent on my knowledge.
For the first time since they took me, I have something that gives me leverage, and I intend to use it for exactly what I came here to do, whether I chose to come here or not.
“Olivia.”
The sound of my name makes my hands pause for the briefest moment.
I look toward Dario.
His expression is unreadable, but there is something different in his eyes now. Not impatience. Not anger. Something more deliberate.
“Your name is Dr. Olivia Cross.”
The words shouldn't matter. They should be nothing more than a statement of fact, yet something cold moves through me as I realize what he is telling me without actually saying it.
He already knew.
I never gave these men my name. I hadn't told them where I worked or which hospital I practiced at, and anything printed on the identification hanging around my neck should have been enough to identify my profession but not enough to explain the certainty with which he had spoken my full name.
Until this moment, I had been telling myself that I was here because circumstances had brought me into the wrong place at the wrong time, that someone had needed a doctor and I had simply been the unfortunate person they found.
Now I'm not so sure.
“You already knew,” I say quietly.
“I know enough.”
The answer is simple, but the certainty behind it makes my stomach tighten.
I hold his gaze for another second, trying to determine how much he actually knows and how much he has deliberately kept from me, before forcing myself to look away.
Whatever information he has gathered about me can wait. Rico cannot.
“Then you know I'm a doctor,” I say, turning back to the patient. “You also know what happens if you keep distracting me while he's dying.”
For a moment, Dario says nothing. Then the corner of his mouth moves almost imperceptibly, not quite a smile but close enough to make me wonder what exactly he finds interesting about the situation.
“You're very comfortable giving orders.”
“I am when someone is dying.”
His gaze remains on me for another heartbeat before he finally turns away.
“Get her what she needs.”
The room moves.
Footsteps sound in the hallway, doors open, voices carry briefly from one room to another, and the men who have spent the last several minutes standing around me begin bringing in what I requested.
The fluids arrive first, followed by blood, and I immediately begin putting the supplies to use.
My hands move with the efficiency years of training have carved into muscle memory as I check Rico's pulse, monitor his pressure, watch the color of his skin, and adjust what I can while compensating for everything I cannot.
The room disappears around me again. There is only the monitor, the blood, the instruments beneath my hands, and the fragile rhythm of Rico's breathing.
For several minutes, I allow myself to believe that we are gaining ground.
Then the monitor changes.
“His pulse is getting weaker,” one of the men says.
“I know.”
My answer comes sharper than I intend, but I don't apologize. I don't have the time.
I shift my position and reassess Rico, searching for any indication that his body is responding to what I am doing.
There is some response, but it isn't enough.
His body is fighting, yet it is losing ground, and I can feel the pressure of the clock closing around us with every shallow breath he takes.
I lean closer, lowering my voice as though speaking directly to him might give his body another reason to stay.
“Rico, listen to me.”
His eyes remain closed.
“You need to stay awake.”
Nothing.
I touch his cheek, firm enough to pull him toward consciousness without causing unnecessary pain.
“Open your eyes.”
For several seconds, nothing happens. Then his lashes move.
Barely.
But they move.
“There you are.” I realize only then that I have been holding my breath and slowly let it out. “Stay with me. You don't get to leave yet.”