LA DOCTORA

"I can pay for it."Isabella hated how small her voice sounded. She gripped the edge of the mahogany desk, her knuckles turning white. She refused to look away from him."I have money saved. And if you need off the books medical work, I am the best trauma surgeon in this city. I will work off the debt. You won't hear a word of complaint from me."Diego didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He just stared at her as if she were a child trying to explain global economics."Siéntate, Doctora," he commanded softly, gesturing to the heavy leather chair opposite him. "Sit down. Before you pass out on my floor."Isabella didn't want to submit, but her legs were shaking so badly she had no choice. She sank into the chair, the cold leather swallowing her."I don't need your money," Diego said, his voice dropping into a smooth, deadly rhythm. "And I don't need a basement doctor. What you don't understand is who you stole from. Those crates belonged to my distribution network."He tapped a manicure

Isabella's fingers cramped. The hot, slick muscle of the sicario's neck fought against her grip, but she refused to let up the pressure on the severed vessel."I said move!" she screamed over the chaos of the warehouse.A heavy, red mechanic's toolbox skidded across the concrete, crashing to a halt against her knees. Javier dropped to a crouch beside her and ripped the metal lid open. It was full of grease stained wrenches and rusted hardware."The needle nose pliers," she commanded, not looking away from the pooling blood. "And the thickest zip tie in there. Get them."Javier slapped the cold metal tool and a black plastic strap into her waiting palm.Isabella looked up at the circle of armed soldiers staring down at her. "Give me the tequila."A soldier ripped a half empty bottle of clear liquor from a nearby crate and handed it down. Isabella bit the cork, spat it onto the concrete, and poured the high proof alcohol directly over the rusted pliers. The sharp, burning stench of the

The scalding water didn't stop the chill.Isabella stood directly under the heavy spray, scrubbing a rough loofah over her forearms until her skin was raw. The water pooling at her feet ran a faint, sickly pink before spiraling down the stainless steel drain.She braced both hands against the wet glass of the shower wall. Her lungs burned.You just pulled a bullet out of a capo on a concrete floor.The sheer insanity of the afternoon threatened to crush her, but she refused to let it. She closed her eyes, locked the trauma into a tight, dark box in the back of her mind, and turned the water off.Ten minutes later, she stood in the massive, slate gray master bedroom. An emerald silk gown lay across the dark duvet. It wasn't a dress; it was camouflage.Isabella pulled the heavy silk over her head. She reached behind her back, her damp fingers slipping uselessly against the tiny metal zipper. The freezing air conditioning hit her wet hair, sending a violent shiver down her spine.The hea