Chapter Three

"That's what people say when they want to believe their money can solve everything. It can't." I cut the suture thread and reached for the next one. "Some things are just off the market. Like my integrity. And my cat. Pickles is not for sale."

Gino's chest moved with a suppressed laugh this time. I could see it in the way his shoulders shifted, the way his jaw tightened. Antonio's eyes flicked toward him again, but the look was softer this time. Almost fond.

"Your cat," Antonio repeated.

"Orange tabby. About fourteen pounds. Currently asleep on my office chair, which means he's having a better night than either of us." I finished the second suture and started on the third. "He's the reason I took this job, actually. The clinic came with living quarters, and I needed somewhere that tolerated pets. The student loans made traditional housing complicated."

"You talk a lot."

"I talk when I'm working. It's a habit. Some people find it unprofessional." I tied off the final suture and reached for the bandaging materials. "Those people can go to a different veterinarian at three in the morning. Oh, wait. There isn't one."

I dressed the wound with the efficiency of someone who'd done it a thousand times. Gauze, tape, pressure check. The bleeding had slowed to almost nothing, which meant I'd done my job correctly. The sutures would hold. He'd need to keep the wound clean and dry, change the bandages regularly, and ideally see an actual doctor within the next few days. None of which he would do, based on the look on his face.

"You need blood," I said, stepping back and stripping off my gloves. The latex peeled away with a snap, and I dropped them into the bin. "You've lost more than you should have. I can see it in your coloring, your breathing rate, the way your pupils are responding."

"I'm fine."

"You're pale. Your skin was already fair, but now you look like you've been stored in a basement. That's not fine. That's clinical anemia." I crossed my arms. "Do you have someone here who can donate? Same blood type?"

Antonio looked at Gino. Gino looked at Antonio. Something passed between them that I couldn't quite read—a conversation conducted entirely in glances and micro-expressions, the kind of communication that came from years of working closely together.

"I'll do it," Gino said. He was already rolling up his sleeve, revealing a forearm that was more tattoo than skin. The ink crawled up his arm in patterns that probably meant something to someone, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know what.

"Have you donated before?"

"Twice." He held out his arm. "Boss gets shot more than he should."

"Boss should consider a different line of work."

Antonio's mouth curved again, that infuriating almost-smile. "It's a family business."

"Family businesses are usually bakeries or hardware stores. Less bullet-related." I pulled out the supplies for a direct transfusion—tubing, needles, antiseptic. The setup was old-fashioned, the kind of thing that hadn't been standard practice in human medicine for decades, but I kept it because animals couldn't donate to blood banks the way humans did, and sometimes you worked with what you had.

"Sit down," I told Gino, pointing to the chair beside the table. "This is going to take a while, and if you pass out, I don't want you cracking your head on my floor. The tiles are original, and I can't afford to replace them."

Gino sat, and I tied the tourniquet around his arm. His veins were excellent—the kind of prominent, healthy vessels that made phlebotomists weep with joy. I found the insertion site, cleaned it, and slid the needle in with the practiced ease of someone who'd drawn blood from far less cooperative patients.

"Don't move," I said. "If you feel dizzy, tell me. Don't try to be a hero. I already have one of those on my table, and it's not going well."

"I'm not—" Gino started, then caught Antonio's look and subsided. "Right. Not being a hero. Got it."

The transfusion began, blood moving from Gino's arm through the tubing and into Antonio's vein. I monitored the flow rate, checked vitals, and tried not to think about the fact that I was performing an unsanctioned medical procedure on a mafia boss in a veterinary clinic at three in the morning while an orange cat slept through it all in the next room.

Pickles, at least, had his priorities straight.

"You went to school for this," Antonio said, watching me work. His color was already slightly better, the transfusion doing its job.

"Eight years. Four for undergrad, four for veterinary school. Plus residency. Plus the student loans I mentioned, which are currently sitting at a number that makes my accountant cry." I adjusted the flow rate slightly. "I made some financial decisions at eighteen that I'm still paying for. Literally."

"What kind of decisions?"

"The kind that seemed smart at the time. Student loans for a prestigious program. Living expenses in an expensive city. A credit card I used for textbooks and somehow ended up using for everything else." I shrugged. "By the time I graduated, I owed more than my first year's salary. So I took a job at an emergency clinic in a rough neighborhood, because they paid more and didn't ask questions about my availability."

"Didn't ask questions," Antonio repeated, and his amber eyes sharpened.

"I've treated some interesting patients. I've had some interesting employers." I met his gaze without flinching. "I'm not going to pretend I've lived a sheltered life. But I left that world behind, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't drag me back into it."

"And yet here we are."

"Here you are. I'm exactly where I've always been—working the night shift, saving lives, and making jokes that nobody laughs at."

Gino laughed. He actually laughed, a genuine sound that he tried to catch behind his hand but couldn't quite contain. Antonio's head turned toward him slowly, and the look he gave his subordinate carried enough weight to stop traffic.

"Sorry," Gino said, not sounding sorry at all. "She's funny."

"She thinks she's funny," Antonio corrected.