Chapter 19 - Van
All I can think about as I walk into this sterile fucking tribunal is her—spread beneath me two nights ago, trusting me completely while these bastards plot to destroy everything else I've built.
After Dom's midnight call led to nothing but a false alarm about Sofia's security detail, after Carmela and I spent yesterday processing the escalating Torrino threats Luca had warned us about, I'm walking into this boardroom knowing exactly what coordinated warfare looks like.
The boardroom feels like a court-martial waiting room, harsh fluorescents casting shadows across mahogany. Three manila folders sit stacked in front of Dr. Hewson's chair, too neat, too prepared for whatever systematic destruction they have planned.
My military training kicks in automatically, cataloging exits and threat positions, but for the first time in three years, that battlefield awareness feels completely fucking useless.
The phantom ache flares in my wrists as I take my seat, old rope burn scars prickling with sense memory of being restrained while patients died around me.
Now they want to strip away my ability to save lives again, and all I can think about is how losing this means losing my ability to protect her.
"Van, thank you for coming." Hewson's tone carries the weight of bad news wrapped in professional courtesy. "We need to discuss some developments."
The board members avoid eye contact, shuffling papers with the nervous energy of people delivering a death sentence.
I take my usual seat, noting how colleagues have been avoiding me in the halls, their whispers dying when I pass.
The gossip network in hospitals moves faster than trauma alerts, but none of this institutional betrayal matters as much as the thought of failing her the way I failed my patients in Afghanistan.
She hummed while making coffee yesterday morning, that bright melody cutting through my nightmares like sunlight through smoke.
Now these fuckers want to take away everything that lets me be worthy of her trust, everything we rebuilt together after the debt revelation, after she chose to embrace her family identity and our relationship.
Hewson opens the first folder. "We've received formal malpractice complaints regarding three recent cases.
All filed within the last forty-eight hours.
" He slides photocopied documents across the table.
"There are also preliminary inquiries from state regulatory boards about your licensing credentials and background verification. "
The words tear through me while I think about how her green eyes went soft when I bound her wrists, how she whispered that she chose this, chose us, despite everything the Rosettis sacrificed for her protection.
I scan the complaints—patients I saved, procedures that went perfectly.
Every accusation reads like fiction, but the legal letterhead is real enough to destroy the life that finally gives me a reason to wake up each morning.
"These appeared overnight," I say, recognizing the coordinated timing I expected. Military precision turned against me while she sleeps safely in my bed, trusting that our reconciliation means something permanent.
"The hospital's insurance carrier has flagged your file for immediate review," Hewson continues, opening the second folder. "There are also questions being raised about your original credentials verification when you were hired."
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. Three years of rebuilding, of proving myself in trauma bays, of becoming the man she chose to trust with her submission—all dissolving exactly like my military career vanished with a court-martial stamp.
The fluorescent lights make everything look clinical, like another fucking tribunal designed to strip away everything I have.
But this time, I'm not just losing a career.
I'm losing my ability to protect the one person who chose me despite the debt, despite the danger, despite everything.
"Dr. Reyes," the chief counsel's voice cuts through my thoughts of her soft sighs when I held her afterward. "The state medical board has opened a formal investigation into your license. We've been informed that previous employment verification may need to be re-examined."
The room tilts slightly as I remember her fingers tracing the scars on my wrists, accepting every broken piece of me without question.
My license—the one the Rosettis helped me obtain, the clean identity that let me practice medicine and deserve her—is now threatened by the same planned dismantling that ended my military career.
The insurance complications alone could destroy my ability to operate, even if the board investigation clears me.
"Hospital privileges are under immediate review pending resolution of these matters," Hewson adds, his words careful and clinical. "We're required to suspend your surgical schedule until further notice."
My hands remain steady on the mahogany surface, surgeon's control intact, but inside I'm watching my second life dissolve exactly like my military career did.
The familiar weight of abandonment crushes down on me—that fucking recognition that no matter how valuable you make yourself, institutions will still cut you loose to protect themselves.
She's the only thing worth saving in this shitshow, and they're trying to take away everything that makes me capable of protecting her.
"How long do I have?" I ask, proud that my voice remains steady while I think about her humming in my kitchen, bringing brightness to spaces that haven't seen light in years.
"Indefinitely," Hewson says. "These complaints need full investigation before any resolution is possible."
I'm studying the complaint documents in my office an hour later, trying to find patterns in the lies, when Dante Rosetti appears in my doorway, moving with that silent precision that always reminds me why smart people fear him.
He carries a manila envelope and a small notebook—his usual tools for communication.
The sight of him reminds me of what Luca told Carmela about the escalating situation, how the family has been coordinating our protection.
He closes the door behind him and slides the envelope across my desk without ceremony.
Inside, I find a detailed written assessment of the attacks against me, complete with timelines, legal firm connections, and regulatory contact information.
Everything documented with military-grade intelligence gathering.
Torrino family desperate, he writes in his notebook, turning it toward me. Using corrupt officials, trying to remove you before final confrontation. Strategic pattern.
I scan his analysis, recognizing the tactical precision that confirms what I already suspected after Luca's warnings about the coordinated campaign. Each complaint, each regulatory inquiry, each insurance complication—all coordinated strikes designed to isolate her by destroying my protection.
"The pattern is exactly what we expected," I say, and Dante nods.
You're thinking like doctor, not soldier, he writes. Medical mind focuses on individual problems. Strategic mind sees whole battlefield.
He's right. Despite knowing this was coming, I've been treating symptoms instead of staying focused on the coordinated campaign, too consumed by my need to be worthy of her trust to maintain proper battlefield perspective.
His eyes hold mine for a long moment—one damaged soldier recognizing another's capacity for destruction.
Dante flips to a fresh page, his assessment brutally accurate.
You have competence they fear. They want you questioning yourself instead of protecting her.
Something in his expression—the recognition of one damaged soldier acknowledging another—tells me he understands exactly how institutional betrayal feels.
How it makes you doubt your own worth even when you know you're being systematically destroyed.
But also how having someone worth protecting changes the stakes completely.
Dante opens his notebook to a new section, this one filled with contact names, legal references, and what looks like a comprehensive battle plan. The scope of information makes my breath catch—this isn't just family connections, it's an entire network of power deployed to protect what I can't lose.
Rosetti family resources, he writes, underlining the word 'family' twice. Legal teams in three states, regulatory contacts at medical board, media influence for counter-narrative.
He slides additional papers across my desk—contact information for attorneys I recognize from high-profile medical defense cases, regulatory officials whose names carry weight, media contacts who could shift public narrative in hours rather than months.
Dante nods, writing quickly. Individual doctor fighting alone loses. Family member with resources wins. Rules change when you have institutional power backing institutional power.
The revelation strikes me: I've been thinking like the abandoned military surgeon, expecting to fight this battle alone and lose like I always do when institutions turn against me.
But I'm not alone anymore, and more importantly, she's not alone.
The Rosettis don't just have money—they have the kind of coordinated influence that can neutralize regulatory attacks before they gain momentum.
Watching Dante coordinate this level of institutional warfare reminds me why smart people fear the Rosetti name.
They don't just break legs—they break entire systems, entire lives, with surgical precision that makes my medical training look amateur.
And she belongs to this power, carries this protection in her blood.
Already making calls, Dante writes. Medical board inquiry will find procedural irregularities in complaint filings. Insurance carrier will discover previous relationship between complainants and Torrino business interests.
I look up from the papers to find Dante watching me with something approaching approval. He writes one final note: Family protects family.
The words carry weight I'm still learning to accept, but more than that—they mean she's protected by more than just my surgical skills and military training. This isn't charity or debt management—it's the kind of institutional support that can preserve everything we're building together.
After Dante leaves, I sit alone in my office, his assessment and contact lists spread across my desk like military intelligence briefings.
As I process how quickly my professional life nearly crumbled, how close I came to losing everything again, one truth crystallizes: she has become the only stable anchor in a world determined to destroy everything I build.
The obsession I've been fighting intensifies rather than diminishes.
She's not just the woman I protect or the debt I'm paying—she's the only thing in my life that regulatory boards can't investigate, that corrupt officials can't destroy with manila folders and sterile proceedings.
Every memory of her submitted and trusting beneath me becomes more precious as everything else turns uncertain.
Part of me wants to handle the Torrinos the way I handled threats in Afghanistan—direct, permanent, final. But Dante's strategic approach will destroy them more thoroughly than any violence I could orchestrate, and more importantly, it will keep her safe while doing it.
I will not lose her. The thought crystallizes into something approaching violence as I grab the papers Dante left me, shoving them into my jacket pocket. They can strip away my surgical privileges, investigate my credentials, destroy my medical career piece by piece.
But she's mine in ways that transcend institutional approval. And I need to get to her now, need to feel her solid and real in my arms while everything else burns around us. Need to remind myself what I'm really fighting for while lawyers and regulatory boards play their games.
I'm already reaching for my keys, my phone, anything that will get me to her faster.
The obsession that's been building since she chose us—since I watched her trust me completely while binding her wrists—demands immediate action.
Not planning, not processing, not waiting for institutional solutions.
I need to see her. Touch her. Claim her again in ways that have nothing to do with medical licenses or hospital privileges. She's what matters, she's what's mine, and right now that's the only certainty I can hold onto.