"Look, I don't know how you got here, but this is an Albanian clinic," I said as firm as I could. "I treat Albanian-approved targets only. If I touch him, I die. My family."
"He's my cousin," the man growled.
"Do you know about the mark?" I asked, hoping he could know about my scalpel tattoo. All the approved people did.
"Mark? I don't have time for this bullshit," he snarled.
He pulled a gun from his waistband and jammed it against my forehead. Just like that. Not even a moment of hesitation.
"You help him," he said, "or you die first."
My hand shook for a second, just one. But I kept my voice calm. I remember thinking if I showed fear, I was dead.
"You won't save him this way," I told him. "You'll just make it worse. Leave. Take him to a hospital. There's still time." I lied.
He didn't move and for a moment, I thought he was going to do it. I thought I'd finally be free.
Then the door slammed again.
Albanian enforcers. Three of them. Guns drawn.
They shouted at Declan to drop his weapon. He didn't.
Instead, he lunged at me, spun me around, and put me between himself and the men.
"You are not welcome here. Take your trash and go," one of the enforcers said.
"She can save him," Declan said as he pressed the gun into my temple. "Tell her to save him."
The enforcer laughed. "She won't. She follows orders. Like good girl. Now go, or die with him."
I said nothing. Did nothing. Just waited.
Finally, Declan gathered his cousin in his arms. His head limp against his shoulder, lifeless. Maybe already gone.
At the door, Declan turned to the men. "I'll find you," he promised. "And when I do, I'll make you watch someone you love die, too."
And then he was gone.
I would learn later both their names when the men went over the security tapes. Declan and Joyce.
I get out of the shower and towel off quickly, skin still burning from how hard I scrubbed.
I drop onto my mattress. There's no frame. Just a mattress on the floor. I stare at the crack on my ceiling. I can hear the couple upstairs screaming again. It's probably about money, or fucking, or both.
As I lie there, listening, I wonder what would've happened if I had helped him that night.
Would the Albanians have made good on their threat to send my sister to me in pieces?
Would Declan have still looked at me like he wanted to kill me?
Would I have died anyway? Would Joyce?
I don't have any answers.
What I do know is this: I've got one plan left. Two more years of stitching up men who think they own the world. Of watching them bleed and scream and grunt through broken jaws and noses in the ring. Of taking the cash and staying quiet, and then I vanish.
There's a city in Romania I heard about once. Cobblestone streets, surrounded by the Carpathians. A man told me about it years ago, a client with a dislocated shoulder who yelled when I popped it back into place. He said it was the only place he'd ever felt peace. That if I had the money, I could disappear there.
