THE DON'S DOCTOR
"Three months. I work for you, treat your people, keep quiet. After which you give me enough money to disappear and never contact me again."
He stood and walked round the desk, stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne, something expensive that reminded me of whiskey and cedar, with an undertone of gunpowder.
"Deal."
He extended his hand, deliberate and steady.
I stared at it, at the tattoos covering his forearm, a family crest, words in Latin I couldn't read. Probably something about honor, or blood or loyalty unto death.
This was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake, but I'd made worse mistakes before and I was still alive despite them.
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