The queen's scalpel

237 am

Chapter 1

2:37 A.M.

Dr. Amara Queen hated paperwork.

Which was ironic.

Considering she'd spent nearly twenty years of her life chasing degrees.

At thirteen, she'd graduated college.

At sixteen, she'd completed medical school.

At twenty-five, she held enough certifications and surgical qualifications to make grown doctors question their life choices.

Yet somehow...

Paperwork remained her greatest enemy.

Amara sighed as she signed another form and dropped it onto the growing stack on her desk.

The clinic was silent.

Blessfully silent.

Most of her staff had gone home hours ago.

The cleaning crew had finished nearly an hour earlier.

Even the city outside seemed exhausted.

The digital clock on her desk read 2:37 A.M.

The grand opening of Queen Medical Center was only three weeks away.

Three weeks.

Twenty-one days.

Not that she was counting.

The clinic occupied five stories in downtown Chicago, a gleaming monument of steel, glass, and ambition.

It was her dream.

Her legacy.

Her kingdom.

Every floor had been designed exactly the way she wanted it.

Every operating room contained cutting-edge equipment.

Every recovery suite rivaled luxury hotels.

She'd spent years planning it.

Years building it.

Years fighting investors, banks, contractors, and anyone foolish enough to tell her she was too young.

Or too Black.

Or too female.

Or too ambitious.

The list was long.

The people had been wrong.

As usual.

Amara adjusted her glasses and reached for another file.

Then paused.

Her dark eyes shifted toward the lobby.

Silence.

Complete silence.

Yet something felt different.

A vibration.

A disturbance.

A presence.

The sensation wasn't unusual.

Years in emergency medicine had trained her instincts.

Sometimes she knew trouble was coming before it arrived.

Three seconds later, the front doors burst open.

The sound echoed through the nearly empty clinic.

Amara didn't jump.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't panic.

She simply removed her glasses.

Folded them carefully.

And waited.

Heavy footsteps thundered through the lobby.

Male voices followed.

Urgent.

Aggressive.

Panicked.

Now that was interesting.

Panicked men were dangerous.

Especially large ones.

A moment later, her office door flew open.

Four men entered.

Expensive suits.

Visible weapons.

Blood.

Lots of blood.

Amara's gaze immediately landed on the injured man.

Mid-thirties.

Gunshot wound.

Significant blood loss.

Pulse weak.

Consciousness fading.

The diagnosis took less than two seconds.

The man wouldn't survive another hour without surgery.

Maybe less.

One of the men stepped forward.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Dark hair.

Tattooed hands.

Expensive black suit.

Dangerous eyes.

The room seemed to shrink around him.

Not because he was loud.

Because he wasn't.

Power radiated from him effortlessly.

The kind of power that didn't need to announce itself.

Amara looked at him.

Then looked at the wounded man.

Then looked back at him.

Silence stretched between them.

The stranger broke first.

"He needs help."

Amara stared.

Expressionless.

Then pointed toward the dying man.

"If you're going to bleed on my floor, put him on an examination table."

The room went silent.

Every single man froze.

The tattooed stranger blinked.

Once.

Slowly.

Like he'd expected literally any other response.

Amara stood from her desk.

Smoothed her black scrub top.

Then walked directly toward the wounded man.

No fear.

No hesitation.

No concern whatsoever about the four armed strangers currently standing inside her clinic.

The tallest man watched her carefully.

Suspiciously.

Curiously.

Dangerously.

Amara ignored him.

Because she had a patient.

Everything else could wait.

She knelt beside the wounded man.

Examined the wound.

Lifted blood-soaked fabric.

Found the entry point.

Then sighed.

Immediately.

"Wonderful."

One of the armed men frowned.

"What?"

"The bullet is still inside him."

Silence.

Then she stood.

Straightened.

And looked directly at the tattooed stranger.

For the first time.

Really looked at him.

Tall.

Handsome.

Italian.

Rich.

Dangerous.

Exhausted.

The exhaustion surprised her.

The dark circles beneath his eyes.

The tension in his shoulders.

The way his gaze constantly tracked every room entrance.

A man carrying the weight of an empire.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Amara crossed her arms.

"Who shot him?"

The question caught everyone off guard.

The stranger's eyes narrowed slightly.

"You asking as a doctor?"

"No."

Silence.

The room somehow became colder.

The stranger studied her.

Longer this time.

Trying to understand her.

Trying to place her.

Trying to figure out why a five-foot-two surgeon was looking at armed men like they were mildly inconvenient.

Finally, he answered.

"Wrong people."

Amara nodded.

"That narrows it down absolutely none."

One of the men actually laughed.

Immediately regretted it.

The tattooed stranger didn't even look at him.

His attention remained fixed on Amara.

Entirely fixed.

The sensation should have bothered her.

It didn't.

Instead, she found herself curious.

A dangerous thing.

Curiosity usually led to trouble.

The stranger finally spoke.

"Can you save him?"

Amara looked at the wounded man.

Then at the surgical wing beyond the hallway.

Then back at him.

"Yes."

Relief flashed across several faces.

Then Amara continued.

"But if you're going to stand around asking obvious questions, probably not."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

The stranger stared.

Then unexpectedly...

A smile appeared.

Small.

Brief.

Dangerous.

But real.

And for reasons she couldn't explain...

Amara found herself smiling back.

Just a little.

The kind of smile a shark might give another shark.

Neither of them realized it yet.

But somewhere between the blood, the guns, and the sarcasm...

The most dangerous partnership in Chicago had just begun.

End Chapter 1