Marked By The Mafia
Chapter 1
The steady beeping filled the room. Serena’s hands hovered over the defibrillator, but her mind had drifted for just a moment—thinking about the argument with Nathaniel that morning.
“Doctor Hayes!” the nurse shouted. “Check the pulse!”
Serena’s stomach dropped. She looked at the patient’s chest. Nothing. The line on the monitor wasn’t moving.
Her hands tightened on the paddles. “Charge to two hundred,” she said.
The junior doctor scrambled to follow. “Two hundred, charged!”
“Clear!” Serena pressed the paddles to the patient’s chest. The body jerked violently, but the monitor stayed flat.
“Again!” she barked, slamming the paddles. Nothing.
“Another shock?” the junior doctor asked, his voice shaky.
“Yes! Now!” she snapped.
The nurse handed her the epinephrine. Serena injected it quickly and started compressions herself. Her arms burned. Sweat ran down her face. She counted every compression aloud. “One… two… three… come on, stay with me!”
The monitor beeped once. Then again. The line began to move, faintly at first, then steadier.
“He’s back!” the nurse said.
Serena stepped back, trembling. Her gloves were smeared with blood. She sucked in a deep breath, her chest tight, her heart hammering. She couldn’t believe it. She almost lost a patient. Because she hadn’t been paying attention.
“Good save, doctor,” the junior doctor said, still pale.
She didn’t respond. She pulled off her gloves and threw them away.
The others started cleaning up, talking quietly. Serena turned toward the counter and leaned on it for a moment, trying to steady her breathing. Her hands still wouldn’t stop shaking.
You can’t do that again, she thought. You don’t get to lose focus.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the screen. Nathaniel.
Her chest tightened. Her hands were still shaking from the ICU. For a second, she had to stop herself from dropping the phone. She’d almost lost a patient tonight—her focus had slipped for the briefest moment, and now even the sight of his name made her feel like she could spiral again.
“Hi, love,” she answered, voice soft.
“Still at the hospital?” His tone was gentle, practiced. “I’m swamped at the bank, but I’ll make it up to you tonight.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll bring dinner. You’ll owe me a massage.”
He laughed, distracted. “Deal.”
When the line went dead, she stared at the ring on her finger. A simple diamond, nothing extravagant, but steady. Safe. Nathaniel represented everything she had promised herself as a child: stability, kindness, no surprises. Not like her stepfather—never like him.
She signed off her charts, locked her office, and drove toward Nathaniel’s flat. Her hands still shook slightly, and her mind replayed the moments in the ICU. She tried to push the memories away, to focus on something else, but the adrenaline hadn’t fully faded.
At a corner café, she picked up his favorite dinner—wild-mushroom risotto and two miniature tiramisus. She imagined the evening: candles, wine, a quiet apology for being late. Maybe they would talk about honeymoon destinations. Santorini, perhaps.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside. The staircase was dim, the kind of quiet that made footsteps sound too loud. As she reached his door, she heard it—laughter, low and intimate. A woman’s.
Serena froze. For a heartbeat, she couldn’t move. Then, she pushed the door open.
The smell hit first—perfume that wasn’t hers. Serena froze. Nathaniel’s lips were pressed against another woman’s, his hands tangled in her hair. Her eyes took it all in: the silk blouse, the wineglass balanced in the woman’s hand, Nathaniel’s shirt half-buttoned, his tie loosened. Every detail burned into her, each one a punch to the stomach.
The take-out bag slipped from Serena’s fingers. The containers burst open, risotto spilling across the rug.
Nathaniel’s face drained of color. “Serena—wait—it’s not—”
“Don’t.” “What the hell is this?” Her voice cracked, sharp and shaking with fury.
Nathaniel pulled back, eyes wide. “Serena, I—”
“Don’t. Don’t even try,” she cut him off, slapping him hard across the face. The sound echoed through her apartment. He stumbled, stunned, holding his cheek.
“I trusted you,” she spat, fists clenched. “Three years. Three years of promises. Three years of pretending you cared. And this? This is how you treat me, bringing another woman into my home?”
The other woman opened her mouth, but Serena’s glare froze her. “Leave,” Serena said, voice low and dangerous. “Both of you. Now. Do I make myself clear?”
Nathaniel’s face twisted, trying to form words, but she didn’t let him. “I don’t want your excuses. I don’t want your lies. We are done. Get out of my house. Get out of my life.”
Her chest heaved, tears stinging, but fury kept her standing tall. “I gave you everything. Everything! And you—you throw it away with her?”
The apartment felt smaller somehow, tighter, suffocating. Serena’s hands trembled, but her voice cut through it all. “Go. Just go. And don’t ever show your face again.”
She closed the bedroom door behind her and slid down against it, knees pulled to her chest. The apartment was silent except for her ragged breathing. She pressed her palms to her face, trying to scrub away the sting of tears, the hot shame, the betrayal that still throbbed in her chest.
Her phone lay on the nightstand, buzzing silently. She ignored it. She didn’t want to hear his voice, any explanations, or the hollow apologies she knew would come.
Slowly, she changed into simple pajamas, her hands still shaking as she tied her hair back. She brushed her teeth mechanically, splashed cold water on her face, and finally collapsed onto the bed. The sheets felt heavy, almost suffocating, but she welcomed it. She needed something solid beneath her, something to hold onto.
Lying there, she stared at the ceiling, willing herself to breathe evenly, to quiet the whirlwind of anger and heartbreak. She repeated the mantra she always used in surgery, the one that kept her steady through the chaos of life and death: control. Find control.
Her eyes burned, her chest ached, but she clung to it. Tonight, at least, she would survive herself.
The phone buzzed again—this time with a different name: Rachel Tanner, her best friend and colleague.
Serena answered. “Please tell me this isn’t another night shift.”
“Not exactly.” Rachel’s voice was low, urgent. “I need a favor. Private call—someone important, pays double. I can’t leave my rotation.”
Serena hesitated. “Rachel, I just—”
“Please, Reni. It’s one patient. He got into some kind of accident, doesn’t trust hospitals. You’ll be in and out. I swear.”
Serena closed her eyes. Anything to keep her mind off what had just happened in her own apartment tonight, that smell of wine and betrayal. “Text me the address.”
She grabbed her medical kit, shrugged into a coat, and stepped into the night again. The rain had stopped, but the city had changed. The streets glistened, emptied, as if Florence itself were holding its breath.
The GPS led her across the river to the hills, where villas sat behind wrought-iron gates. When she reached the address, two men were waiting—dark suits, no smiles. One opened the gate without a word. The gravel crunched under her tires as she drove up the path to the house that looked more fortress than home.
Serena’s heartbeat quickened. “Private call,” she murmured. “No questions.”
She repeated Rachel’s words like a mantra as one of the men opened her door. “Dr Hayes?” he asked in accented English.
“Yes.” She answered.
“This way.”
The corridor smelled faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. Marble floors, dim lights. At the end of the hall, a heavy door stood ajar. A low male voice said something in Italian—something sharp—and another answered, nervous.
When she stepped inside, the world narrowed.
Blood streaked the floor tiles. A man sat in an armchair, shirt crimson at the shoulder, a gun resting on the table beside him. He looked up slowly, eyes a piercing gray that seemed to take in every inch of her—clinical, dangerous. For a heartbeat, she thought he might be the patient. Then she saw the wound. Deep. Clean. Gunshot.
“Dottore,” he said, voice smooth as smoke. “You’re late.”
Serena’s throat tightened. He’s armed, her mind screamed, and you’re alone. But years in the ICU had taught her how to hide fear. She set her kit down, forced her voice steady. “If you want to keep that arm, you’ll put the gun away.”
Something flickered at the corner of his mouth—a ghost of amusement. He nodded to one of the men behind her, who removed the weapon. The gesture felt less like obedience and more like indulgence.
Serena approached, hands steady, eyes fixed on the wound. “You were lucky,” she said. “Another centimeter and you’d be dead.”
“I’m always lucky,” he murmured. “Do what you must, Dottore.”
As she cleaned the blood, their gazes met again. The room seemed smaller, the air heavier. He didn’t flinch under the antiseptic, didn’t look away. She could feel the weight of his stare even when she focused on the sutures.
Keep it professional, she told herself. In, out, forget this ever happened.
When she finished, she packed her medical kit and straightened. “You’ll need antibiotics. I’ll write—”
“Stay,” he interrupted.
Her pulse jumped. “Excuse me?”
“Have a drink with me. To celebrate surviving the night.” He gestured toward the decanter on the table, his voice lazy, almost teasing.
Serena’s mouth went dry. Every instinct screamed to leave, to run, yet something in his tone—command laced with curiosity—made her hesitate.
She met his eyes, forcing herself to sound calm. “I don’t drink with patients.”
“Then think of me as something else.” He said.
The silence stretched. Serena glanced toward the door, then back at him. Just one drink, she told herself. She had no idea the night had only just begun.
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