Elena's POV
My hands froze over the sink as the alarm shrieked through the surgical wing.
"Trauma alert! GSW to the head! All surgeons report to ER!"
I looked up at Dr. Martinez through the observation window. He was already prepped for our scheduled surgery—a simple valve repair on a ten-year-old girl. His eyes met mine, and he nodded once. Go.
I burst through the doors, still dripping soap, and sprinted down the hallway. My heart hammered against my ribs. Gunshot wounds weren't my specialty. I fixed children's hearts, not bullet holes in grown men's skulls.
But when I skidded into the trauma bay, I understood why they'd called me.
"He's crashing!" A nurse shouted, pumping the patient's chest. Blood pooled on the white floor, spreading like spilled paint. "We need a neurosurgeon NOW!"
"Dr. Chen's in another surgery," the ER doctor stammered, his face pale as milk. "And Dr. Roberts is forty minutes out. This man doesn't have forty minutes!"
I pushed through the crowd and stared down at the patient. My stomach dropped to my feet.
Sal Marino. Dominic's underboss. The man who used to slip me chocolate bars when I visited Dominic's office six years ago.
"His intracranial pressure is through the roof," I said, scanning the monitors. The numbers were all wrong—too high, too fast. "He needs emergency decompression or he's dead in ten minutes."
"You're a pediatric cardiologist!" The ER doctor's voice cracked. "You can't—"
"I published a paper on modified decompression techniques last year." I grabbed a gown from the rack and yanked it on. "I've done this procedure four times. It's experimental, but it works."
"Four times? On children!"
"Would you rather let him die?" I snapped, shoving my hands into gloves. "Someone page anesthesia. Now!"
The room exploded into motion. Nurses scrambled for equipment. Someone wheeled in a tray of surgical instruments. I didn't let myself think about Sal's wife, his three daughters, or the fact that his blood was staining my shoes.
I definitely didn't let myself think about Dominic.
The drill hummed in my hand as I created a small window in Sal's skull. Blood and fluid immediately began draining, relieving the deadly pressure crushing his brain. My hands moved on autopilot—every motion precise, every decision calculated.
"Pressure's dropping," a nurse called out. "Seventy... sixty-five... stabilizing!"
I exhaled slowly and began the delicate work of controlling the bleeding inside. The room fell silent except for the steady beep of monitors and my own breathing.
That's when I felt it. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck.
I glanced up at the observation gallery.
Dominic stood behind the glass, his hands pressed flat against the window. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the hard line of his jaw. His dark eyes locked onto mine, and for one breathless moment, the entire world shrank to just the two of us.
I looked away first and focused on Sal's bleeding brain.
Two hours later, I peeled off my gloves and stumbled out of the OR. Sal was alive. Critical, but alive.
The hallway was empty except for one person.
Dominic leaned against the wall, still wearing the same black suit I'd seen through the observation window. His tie was loosened, and he looked like he'd aged ten years in the past two hours.
"He's stable," I said quietly. "The next forty-eight hours are critical, but I think he'll make it."
Dominic pushed off the wall and walked toward me. Three steps. Two. One.
He stopped so close I could smell his cologne—the same one he'd worn six years ago, cedar and something dark I'd never been able to name.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice rough like gravel.
"I'm a doctor. It's my job."
"Elena—"
"Don't." I held up my hand, backing away. "We're not doing this. Not here. Not now."
His jaw clenched. "When, then? It's been six years, and you won't even look at me."
"Because looking at you hurts!" The words ripped out of me before I could stop them. "Because every time I see your face, I remember—"
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I yanked it out, grateful for the interruption.
Unknown number.
I frowned and opened the message. My blood turned to ice.
It was a photograph. Adrian. My five-year-old son. Playing in Central Park with his nanny.
There were red crosshairs drawn over his face.
Below the image, one sentence: Does Dominic know about your little secret?
The phone slipped from my shaking fingers and clattered to the floor.
Dominic caught it before it smashed. He looked at the screen, and I watched all the color drain from his face.
"Who is that?" His voice was deadly quiet.
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Someone had found Adrian. Someone knew.
"Elena." Dominic gripped my shoulders. "Who. Is. That. Child?"
I looked up into his dark eyes—the same eyes that stared back at me every time Adrian smiled.
"He's yours," I whispered. "His name is Adrian, and he's your son."