The Surgeon's Shadow

The private mezzanine became an improvised operating theater under the harsh amber light of the chandelier.

Mia worked with swift, clinical efficiency. The compulsive hesitation that plagued her daily life vanished entirely under pressure; in the face of a critical trauma, her mind was a clear, unyielding blade.

She poured neat bourbon over the crude blade of Nick’s pocketknife to sterilize it, while Nick held a heavy linen napkin against Leo's wound with steady, unshakeable hands, watching Mia's face with undisguised awe.

"You're not shaking," Nick noted quietly as Mia deftly probed the tissue for lead fragments.

"When a life is on the line, my hands only do what they're trained to do," Mia replied, her voice steady, focused entirely on the torn muscle fibers beneath her fingers. "Hold him tighter. He's going to feel this."

Using a makeshift needle fashioned from a heavy-duty sewing kit kept behind the bar, Mia worked with blinding speed, closing the wound stitch by precise stitch.

When she tied off the final knot, she let out a long, shuddering breath, her forehead slick with a light sheen of sweat. She wiped her bloody hands on a clean napkin, looking down at the unconscious lieutenant.

"He'll live," Mia said, looking up to meet Nick’s slate-grey gaze. "Get him to a real doctor by morning, or the infection will finish what the bullet started."

Nick didn't move for a long moment. He reached out, his large, warm hand gently cupping the side of her face, his thumb lightly brushing away a smudge of soot from her cheekbone.

"You are something else, Dr. Vance," Nick whispered, his voice thick with a dangerous, simmering emotion that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with desire.

Before Mia could step back, the door to the mezzanine burst open again—and this time, it wasn't a wounded lieutenant.

Standing in the doorway, holding a manila envelope and staring in absolute horror at the blood-stained table and Nick's hand on Mia's face, was David.