All Chapters of After Hours Service: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Rico trotted after me into the exam room like he'd lived here his entire life. Antonio followed, and Gino stationed himself in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the proceedings with barely contained delight. The scale read 83.6 pounds. I noted it on a fresh intake form—species: canine, breed: German shepherd, name: Rico, owner: Antonio Cagliari, occupation: allegedly nothing that would hold up under federal scrutiny. Rico jumped onto the exam table with no hesitation and stood, perfectly behaved, while I checked his vitals. Heart rate normal, lungs clear, temperature unremarkable. A healthy, well-tempered animal who had apparently decided within thirty seconds of meeting me that I was his entire reason for existing. "Sit," Antonio said to the dog. Rico's ear flicked. He stayed where he was, tongue lolling, pressed against my hip. "Sit," Antonio repeated, with the authority of a man who was accustomed to being obeyed without question. Rico looked at me. I pointed to the

Antonio stepped closer. The examination room, which had never felt large, suddenly felt like a closet. "I’ll send you to medical school if that’s what you want. I would pay you an extraordinary amount simply for remaining available. Your clinic, your practice, your life—nothing changes. You simply agree to be reachable when my people need emergency care."I knew what he was doing. He had people for this. He didn’t need me. "My student loans are not your problem.""I'll pay them.""You will not.""I'll pay them off. All of them. Today."I stared at him. "You cannot just buy me another doctorate.""Why not?""Because normal people do not casually purchase medical degrees for acquaintances!""I have never claimed to be normal."I threw my pen on the counter. "I have a practice. I have responsibilities. I have a license that does not cover human patients. I have a life that is not for sale, Antonio. No."He regarded me with something that looked almost like respect. "Think about it.""I t

My phone buzzed against the nightstand at 8:13 a.m., rattling against a half-empty glass of water and the bottle of ibuprofen I kept there for precisely this kind of moment. I'd been asleep for seventy-three minutes. I knew this because I'd watched the clock flip from 6:59 to 7:00 just before my eyes shut, and now it read 8:13 with the cruel precision of a device that didn't care about overnight emergency shifts.Pickles lifted his head from the pillow beside mine, his ears swiveling toward the phone with the expression of a creature who understood that sleep was sacred and someone had just violated the temple.I reached for the phone with the slow, deliberate movement of someone considering whether to throw it across the room or read the message. The screen's brightness stung my eyes.The Dogfather: This is Antonio Cagliari. I got your number from the clinic intake form.I stared at the message. Then I stared at it again.He had given me his number. I had his number. He had watched m

I stared at the screen. Pickles jumped onto the bed and walked across my legs, and I didn't feel it. I was too busy realizing that Antonio Cagliari's ability to unsettle me through text was becoming more dangerous than anything else about him—the gunshots, the tattoos, the background check, the men who followed him and bled for him. All of that I could handle. That was terrain I understood. But this—this quiet, controlled, deliberate provocation delivered through a phone screen—this was something else.Sir, this is a professional veterinary consultation.The Dogfather: Is it?Rico is my patient. You are his owner. This is an owner-veterinarian communication regarding canine health.The Dogfather: The woman who threatened me with therapeutic scissors is now lecturing me about professionalism.That was different. You were bleeding on my table.The Dogfather: And you called my dog Tax Fraud.That was a joke.The Dogfather: You called me Daddy. Twice. Was that a joke too?I put the phone

"Antonio says eat," Gino announced, setting the bags on the reception desk."You drove here at midnight to deliver Thai food.""He made me." Gino began unpacking the bags. Containers emerged—white cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, each one labeled in handwritten marker. Drunken noodles with tofu. Spring rolls. Tom Kha soup with chicken. Mango sticky rice. Pad see ew. A side of peanut sauce."This is enough food for four people," I said."He didn't know what you liked. He said to order everything.""He asked me what I liked. I told him I wasn't accepting—""He also said you'd say that." Gino pulled a separate container from the last bag and set it aside. Chicken satay. "This one's mine.""Yours?""He said I should stay. Make sure you eat."I stared at him. Gino stared back, his expression caught somewhere between obedience and apology—the look of a man who had been assigned a task he couldn't refuse by an employer he couldn't refuse, and who understood that the task was abs