A slot at my table was nearly impossible to get.

Wounded men were carried in from three territories away, smuggled through back roads for hours, just to have my hands and no one else's stitching them shut where no Fed report would ever be filed.

A last-minute change in the schedule meant I'd quietly traded my afternoon hours with another of the Family's surgeons for the noon block. By morning the men were already lined down the corridor of the back-room, the air thick with leather and old blood, and I hadn't even had time for a sip of water.

At the busiest point of the day, the door to the surgery flew open.

A man rushed in carrying a pregnant woman drenched in blood.

Her face was ashen, her consciousness already slipping, blood dripping steadily from the hem of her dress and dragging a glaring red smear across the floor.

"Doctor! Save her!"

The man's voice shook, almost begging.

"Our slot's in the afternoon, but she's hemorrhaging all of a sudden, she's not going to make it!"

"My wife's always been frail, and now they've found it's an ectopic pregnancy. She could die! Please, save her first!"

The room went silent in an instant.

Every gaze in the back-room landed on the two of them.

I frowned and set down the chart in my hand at once.

Bound by my oath, faced with something like this, my body reacted almost before my mind did.

"Critical patient goes to the back table first."

"Prep for off-the-books work, I'll be right—"

Halfway through, I lifted my head.

The next second, every sound cut off.

The air seemed to freeze.

The man holding the pregnant woman went rigid where he stood.

And I, at last, saw his face clearly.

Dario Conti.

My husband of nine years.

The man the Falcone bloodline had floated a crew and a territory, on our tribute money, the day he married into us.

The man who'd told me on the phone just yesterday that he was handling business in another state and wouldn't be back until next week.

And here he was, holding another woman who carried his child, kneeling before me in a bloody mess, begging for help.

Our eyes met.

The color drained clean from Dario's face.

His mouth opened, as if he wanted to explain something, but not a single word came out.

You could have heard a pin drop.

Even the runner beside me sensed something was wrong and stood frozen in place.

I looked at the woman in his arms.

At the swell of her belly.

Then back at Dario's ashen face.

And I laughed.

The smile never reached my eyes.

"So that's how it is."

I rose slowly to my feet, my voice so calm it sounded foreign even to me.

"This is what you called handling business out of state?"

My gaze settled on the woman in his arms, and I gave a small nod.

"It really has been…"

"Hard work for you."

…

A place at my table was always hard to come by.

Wounded soldiers were smuggled in from territories ten hours out, riding back roads through the night, just to put their lives in my hands and no one else's.

So the men wouldn't make the trip for nothing, I'd quietly traded a day of hours with another of the Family's surgeons.

The result was that from morning on, the corridor outside the back-room was packed with men.

I didn't even have time for a sip of water.

At the busiest point of noon, the surgery door was suddenly shoved open.

A man stumbled in, carrying a pregnant woman covered in blood.

Her face was ashen, her forehead beaded with cold sweat, blood streaming down the hem of her dress and quickly pooling into a glaring patch of red on the floor.

"Doctor! Please, save her!"

The man's voice trembled, on the verge of breaking.

"Our slot's in the afternoon, but she's hemorrhaging out of nowhere, she's not going to make it!"

"She's always been frail, and now they've found it's an ectopic pregnancy. She could really die! Please, save her first!"

The room fell silent at once.

I frowned and set down the chart in my hand immediately.

Bound by my oath, faced with something like this, the first instinct is always to save the patient.

"Get the table cleared and the kit ready."

"Critical patient goes under first, I'll be right—"

The next second, my voice cut off.

The air seemed to freeze on the spot.

The man holding the pregnant woman froze too.

The panic and dread hadn't even left his face before he went completely rigid where he stood.

The man who'd told me on the phone just yesterday that he was handling business in another state and wouldn't be back anytime soon.

And here he was, holding another pregnant woman, standing in my surgery.

The instant our eyes met, the color visibly drained from Dario's face.

His mouth opened, as if he wanted to explain something.

But in front of a back-room full of wounded men and runners, not a single word came out.

The silence around us was so deep you could have heard a pin drop.

Even the runner beside me, ready to take the patient, sensed something was off and stared at us, stunned.

My gaze drifted slowly to the high swell of the woman's belly.

Then back to Dario's ashen face.

It felt like something had stabbed my heart, hard.

Yet strangely, once the pain passed, what came after was calm.

I laughed all of a sudden.

"Dario."

I said his name softly.

"This is the business out of state you told me about?"

His throat bobbed. He wet his lower lip, and I watched the laugh come a half-beat too soon, his hand drifting up to straighten a tie that was already straight. His arms tightened around the woman without his meaning them to.

"Honey, I…"

He'd barely started when I cut him off.

I looked at the woman fading in his arms, my gaze as cold as if I were looking at a stranger.

"It really has been hard work for you."

"Keeping your pregnant outsider company at her checkups, while squeezing in time to report your whereabouts to me."

"And all these years, I never noticed a thing."

With that, I pressed the call to the next room.

When I looked up again, I'd returned to the composure my oath demanded of me.

"Clear the table and prep."

"Ectopic pregnancy, hemorrhaging. Bring her back, now."

"As for everything else—"

My eyes swept across Dario's face.

My voice was calm, without a ripple in it.

"Once she's alive, we'll settle the rest, slowly."

As the runner wheeled Gianna Russo deeper into the back-room, she still turned her head to look back at me.

There was panic in that look, and guilt, and something else she couldn't quite hide. Pity.

As if she were the one who'd won.

And I was the poor fool who'd been kept in the dark, the only one at the table who never saw the cards.

The steel door of the surgery sealed shut.

That left only me and Dario in the guarded room where I patched the Family's wounded.

The air was so heavy I could barely breathe.

Dario stood where he was, watching me with a complicated expression.

I thought he would explain. That he would feel ashamed. That he might even say he was sorry.

But after a moment's silence, his first words left me completely stunned.

"Adriana, I know you're angry."

"But have you ever stopped to think about why we ended up like this?"

I stared at him, almost certain I'd misheard.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Dario wet his lower lip and reached to straighten a tie that was already straight, his face dark.

"You don't understand what I mean?"

"Nine years bound by the blood oath, and every single day it's work, work, another soldier bleeding out on your table. How much of this household have you ever actually managed?"

"On my birthday you were elbow-deep in some shot-up runner. On the night they swore me into the crew you were on call. When my mother took ill you always said you were busy. You couldn't even find the time to sit down and eat a Sunday meal with me."

"Adriana, is there anything in your heart besides that back-room?"

The more he said, the more worked up he got. As if he'd finally found an outlet.

"Every day it's the wounded, the table, your head crammed full of other men's blood."

"But I'm your husband, not one of your patients!"

"Look at yourself. It's the surgeon's gloves and nothing but the gloves, the work and nothing but the work. Bare-faced every single day, you don't even put on a decent dress. Where's there any trace of a woman left in you?"

Word after word, every line landed like a slap across my face.

I stood there, and a cold spread through my whole body.

And Dario wasn't finished.

"I'm a normal man. I need company too, I need someone who cares!"

"Gianna is different."

When he said that name, something even tender surfaced in his eyes.

"She remembers my birthday. She brings me things. She works the knots out of my shoulders when the territory's bled me dry. She'll sit and talk with me, listen to me complain about the men I answer to."

"When I'm with her, that's when I feel like I'm needed."

The room went quiet.

But my ears were ringing.

My heart felt like something was ripping it open, slow and deliberate, each pull leaving me numb with pain.

Nine years.

A full nine years.

I'd gone from a green hand barely trusted to hold a scalpel, grinding my way up step by step to the one cleaner the whole territory called when a soldier couldn't risk a Fed hospital.

Countless nights working blood off my hands before dawn.

Countless men carried in half-dead.

Countless races against the morgue slab.

I'll admit it. I'd shortchanged the family.

But I had never once shortchanged him.

When his crew hit its worst stretch, the tribute came up short and the Family was ready to take it out of his skin.

It was me who handed over every last cent I'd put aside.

Me who swallowed my pride and went to my own bloodline, to the Falcones, to borrow more.

That's what carried him through those impossible months.

He'd be out drinking and entertaining the men he owed until dawn.

No matter how late they dragged me from the surgery, I always left a light on for him.

Kept his dinner warm.

Waited for him to come home.

When his mother was laid low, I was the one who called in every favor I had to find her a quiet surgeon and a safe bed.

I worked the wounded by day.

Sat by her side by night.

Brought her water, fed her, wiped her down, changed the pads.

A full month.

I never once slept through a whole night.

Yet now, the way he told it, I had never cared for this family at all.

He only remembered that I'd missed his birthday. Missed the night they made him.

He'd forgotten all the nights I'd ground myself down for this home, all the hardship I'd swallowed.

Forgotten that what I faced every day was life and death, blood and dying.

Forgotten how terrified I was, every time the phone rang in the dead of night with another man on the brink, that I wouldn't be able to bring him back.

I looked at the man in front of me.

And suddenly he was a complete stranger.

As if in these nine years I'd never truly known him at all.

Seeing me say nothing, Dario took it as confirmation that he'd hit the mark. If anything his expression grew even more self-righteous.

"What? Nothing to say?"

"Adriana, you bear part of the blame for this too."

"If you weren't so cold all the time, like a block of wood no amount of warmth could thaw, I'd never have come to this."

"Now Gianna is carrying my child, my blood, and something this serious has happened."

"You're the cleaner. Saving her is your duty!"

"If you let her die over a grudge between us, that's using your place in this Family for revenge!"

"I'll take it straight to the Don's table!"

"And I'll see to it the whole street hears your name!"

"By then forget the back-room. You won't lay a hand on another wounded man as long as you live!"

As that last line dropped, I suddenly laughed.

Laughed until my eyes burned red.

Laughed until my heart ached.

So it turned out that when it came to a moment like this, the first thing on his mind wasn't to beg me to save her.

It was to threaten me.

With the one thing I cared about most.

With everything I'd spent half my life fighting to earn.

To threaten me.

I closed my eyes slowly.

When I opened them again, the last bit of warmth in them was gone for good.

After a long silence, I drew in a deep breath.

My voice was hoarse, but strangely calm.

"Fine."

Dario faltered.

I lifted my head and looked at him. Every word clear, unmistakable.

"I'll save her."

"But not because of your threat."

"And not because I think I've done anything wrong."

"Dario, remember this."

I lowered my head and smoothed the creases in my coat, my gaze settling on the hands that had pulled more men back from death than he would ever name.

My voice wasn't loud, but every word landed hard.

"I'm saving her only because of the oath I swore over this work."

"From the day I first took up the scalpel for this Family, I made a vow."

"No matter who's lying on that table, no matter what's between her and me."

"As long as there's still breath in her."

"I will not stand by and watch someone die."

With that, I turned and walked toward the surgery.

Behind me was the unreadable weight of Dario's stare.

I didn't look back.

Because from this moment on, he was just the kin of a patient.

Nothing more.

When I finished, I didn't look at Dario again. I turned and walked toward the back-room.

The doors of the surgery.

Dario paced back and forth, restless, his forehead damp with cold sweat.

The moment he saw me come out in my scrubs, he rushed over.

I had on my mask and cap. Only my eyes showed.

Just as I was about to go in, he suddenly called out to stop me.

"Adriana."

I halted and turned to look at him.

His mouth opened, then closed. He hesitated.

After a moment, he asked it anyway.

"You... you wouldn't do anything on the table, would you?"

For an instant the air went still.

I almost thought I'd misheard.

"What did you just say?"

He avoided my eyes, but forced himself to keep going. His fingers drifted up and adjusted a tie that was already straight.

"How do I know you won't use this to settle a personal score?"

"You hate us this much right now. Who's to say you won't let something happen to her on purpose?"

In that moment, I almost laughed.

Not out of anger.

Out of how absurd it was.

Nine years bound to him by blood and tribute.

And he actually suspected I'd take a life on my table to vent.

I looked at him, my voice cold without a trace of warmth.

"Dario, is that the kind of person I am to you?"

He didn't answer.

But the silence was answer enough.

The next second, he spun to the woman standing beside him.

"Donna Marchetti, I want a different surgeon!"

"Or put someone in there to work alongside her!"

"I can't let her open Gianna up alone!"

Mira Marchetti had already been holding back a chestful of anger.

At those words, her face went completely dark.

"Mr. Conti."

"Adriana is the finest hand the Family has ever put in that room."

"She's pulled hundreds of men and women back from the edge in there, and not once has anyone bled out on her watch."

"No one who answers to this house questions her honor."

"If you don't trust her, you're free to take Gianna elsewhere. Right now."

With that, Mira Marchetti turned and walked off. Her ring finger never once touched the table at her side — the matter, everyone present understood, was not finished.

She gave Dario no chance to keep making trouble.

Dario's face shifted from red to white and back. He wet his lower lip and laughed a half-beat too soon, the sound dying in the silent corridor.

But in the end, he didn't dare move her.

Gianna's condition was already critical.

Any more delay, and it wouldn't just be the child. They could lose the woman too.

In the end, all he could do was watch me walk into the surgery.

The heavy doors closed slowly.

Sealing off everything outside.

I drew in a deep breath.

Scrubbed in again, sterilized, pulled on my gloves.

Then took the scalpel the runner handed me.

From this moment on.

I was no longer Dario's wife.

Only the Family's surgeon.

Nothing more.

The work lasted a full three hours.

The hemorrhage from the rupture was far worse than I'd expected.

By the time I finished the last suture, my back was already soaked with sweat.

When I walked out of the back-room, it was three in the afternoon.

I hadn't had a drop of water since the morning's calls came in.

Three straight days without rest had built up an exhaustion that finally hit its limit in that moment.

The instant I pulled off my mask.

Everything went black.

My body tipped backward, out of my control.

In the last second before I lost consciousness.

I heard Dario's anxious voice.

But it wasn't my name he called.

"Doctor!"

"How is Gianna?"

"Is she okay?"

Consciousness dropped into the dark.

How long, I don't know.

Then noise broke through near my ear.

"Adriana!"

"Adriana, wake up!"

I forced my eyes open.

A young runner was crouched beside me, her face full of worry.

She pulled a piece of candy from her pocket without missing a beat and pushed it into my mouth.

"Your blood sugar again."

"You've worked three days straight. Two off-the-books jobs last night, and today the calls and the table back to back."

"Keep this up and even someone made of iron couldn't take it!"

The sugar dissolved slowly.

A little strength came back into my body at last.

Only then did Dario seem to notice I existed.

He looked down at me.

His gaze landed on my face, pale and drained of color.

For an instant his expression froze.

The runner explained, her tone sharp with irritation.

"She fainted. Her blood sugar bottomed out."

But the next second.

Dario let out a cold laugh.

"Blood sugar?"

"Her own bad health is whose fault?"

"If you ask me, she did it on purpose." He reached up and straightened the tie again, the laugh coming too quick.

The runner froze.

Even the other men nearby frowned.

And Dario kept going.

"Dropping right at this moment. Isn't that just to make me feel guilty?"

"Adriana, I know you too well."

"You just want to use this to get back at me, don't you?"

Each word came down like a blow.

Heavier than the three hours I'd stood over that table.

Suddenly I felt a hollow place open in my chest.

It wasn't pain.

It was numbness, complete and total.

So it turned out that when a person is disappointed past all limits.

Even heartache stops coming.

I pushed away the runner's supporting hand.

And slowly got up off the floor.

My voice was calm, even to my own surprise.

"The work is done."

"Gianna is out of danger."

"Someone will see to her from here."

I lifted my head and looked at Dario.

There wasn't a shred of feeling left in my eyes.

"You can go in and see her now."

With that, I turned and left.

From start to finish, I never looked at him again.

Early the next morning.

I made my rounds as usual, moving room to room through the quiet of the safe house.

When I reached the door of Gianna's room, the voice coming from inside made me stop.

"Dario..."

Gianna was propped up in the bed, her voice so soft and coy it could practically drip. Her fingers rested at her collarbone, pressing gently, as if to steady a heart that beat just fine.

"My stomach still hurts so much."

"Did that surgeon maybe botch the work?"

Dario tensed at once.

"Why would it hurt?"

"Do you want me to go get the doctor?"

Gianna bit her lip, the picture of injured innocence.

"I don't know either."

"I heard so many stories yesterday."

"There was a hand who left a blade inside a man he was cutting open."

"And another who forgot a length of gauze in someone's body, and the rot nearly killed them."

At that.

She deliberately paused.

"Dario."

"Do you think... maybe something like that could happen to me too?"

The room went quiet at once.

And standing outside the door, I slowly tightened my grip on the chart in my hands.