Page 468 of Rosetti Family New York
"This is neither the time nor place," I say, voice dropping to the tone that made enemy combatants reconsider life choices.
Torrino's attention shifts to me, taking in my military bearing, how I stand balanced and ready. His smile widens, showing too many teeth. "And you would be the family's new… associate… with an impressive resume."
The crowd continues dancing around us, elegant couples lost in their worlds while violence simmers beneath surface. The orchestra plays on, oblivious to the danger crystallizing on their dance floor.
"Your father made promises," Torrino continues, speaking directly to Carmela. "Family obligations needing address. My boss would hate for anything… unfortunate… to happen to such lovely young woman."
The threat hangs like poison. Around us, Chicago's medical elite sip champagne and discuss stock portfolios while a mafia operative promises to murder the woman I'm supposed to protect.
"You've got five seconds to disappear before I show this crowd what a real medical emergency looks like," I say, voice carrying lethal calm I learned in field hospitals where death was always one wrong move away.
Torrino laughs like breaking glass. "Or what, Doctor? You'll operate on me?"
He reaches into his jacket—fast, going for what's probably .38 special based on the shoulder holster outline. But my military training kicks in before conscious thought. My left hand shoots out—radial nerve compression point, his gun hand goes numb instantly. My blade slides between ribs three and four, angled up toward the ascending aorta. Muscle memory from field surgery, except this time I'm causing damage instead of fixing it.
My movement is so smooth, so controlled, the couples dancing nearby don't even notice. Torrino's eyes go wide as my knife finds the space between his ribs.
"Cardiac tamponade," I murmur in his ear as his knees buckle. "Blood is filling your pericardial sac, compressing your heart. Maybe two minutes before unconsciousness. Four before death."
He drops to one knee, suit jacket concealing growing blood stain. I catch him as he falls, making it look like he stumbled, had too much champagne. My body shields the violence from other dancers as I lower him to marble floor.
"Medical emergency," I announce calmly, decades of trauma surgery lending authority. "Someone call 911. Possible cardiac event."
The crowd shifts into a concerned murmur, guests stepping back while maintaining civilized composure. A few doctors approach to help, but I wave them off with confidence of someone who's performed surgery in war zones.
"Pulse is thready," I say for their benefit, checking vitals I know are failing. "Probably MI. Needs immediate transport."
Torrino tries to speak, blood frothing at corners of his mouth. I lean down as if checking his airway.
"Tell your boss," I whisper, "if anyone else threatens her, I'll show them what I learned about pain in places the Geneva Convention doesn't reach."
His eyes flutter closed as paramedics arrive, moving quickly to load him onto gurney. They'll try to save him—good trauma surgeons, professionals who don't ask questions. But I angled the blade mathematically. He'll die on the operating table despite their best efforts.
My hands shake as adrenaline crashes through my system.
The elegant crowd witnesses nothing more than a medical professional handling an emergency competently. But Carmela saw. She stands frozen at edge of dance floor, champagne flute forgotten, watching me with new understanding.
She knows exactly what I am now.
8 - Carmela
Van's hand finds my thigh the moment he shifts into drive, his fingers burning through the midnight silk like a brand. The simple touch sends liquid heat spiraling through me, and I have to press my lips together to keep from making a sound. Chicago's lights blur past the window as his thumb traces lazy circles against the fabric, each stroke making my core clench with need.
"This is probably not what Dom meant by 'staying close for protection,'" I say, trying for bright but sounding breathless. "Though I have to say, your hand is very… protective. Very thoroughly protective of this specific part of my thigh."
I should push his hand away. Should tell him this crosses every professional boundary he's so carefully maintained. Instead, I find myself shifting slightly, the silk pooling higher on my legs, giving him more access to the bare skin just above my knee.
"Are you okay?" Van asks, his voice cutting through the charged silence, but his hand doesn't move.
I turn to study his profile in the dashboard light, hyperaware of how his fingers flex against my thigh with each gear change. Even now, driving me home, he maintains perfect control except for this one point of contact that's making me dizzy with want. His other hand grips the steering wheel with the same steady precision I watched him use to disable that man who threatened me tonight.
"I'm processing," I admit, my voice breathier than intended as his thumb finds the sensitive spot where my thigh meets my hip.
The age gap between us has never felt more apparent. I'm twenty-three and sheltered, getting wet from a simple touch, while he's thirty-five and capable of things that make me ache with need. The way he moved through that chaos tonight, how easily he handled men twice my size, I'm not terrified by what he did. I'm something else entirely, something that makes me want to part my legs and beg him to slide his hand higher.
"Processing what?" Van glances at me, something dark flickering in his steel-gray eyes as he notices how I've melted into his touch.
His fingers press deeper into my flesh, not quite a caress but far more than professional contact. The tension crackling between us makes the car feel smaller, makes the midnight silk of my gown feel like liquid fire against my heated skin.
