The sacrificial lamb
Lucian's POV
The last thing I remembered was the smell of gunpowder and blood.
A flash.
A searing pain tearing through my ribs.
The world erupted into chaos. The sharp cracks of gunfire echoed through the narrow Sicilian streets, and the shouts of my men blended into one violent symphony. My breath caught somewhere between pain and disbelief as my hand pressed against the wound.
Then came Leo.
His face hovered above mine, usually calm and controlled, now twisted with something dangerously close to panic.
“Boss!”
His voice sounded distant, as if I was sinking beneath the waves.
“Stay with me, goddammit!”
I tried to answer. Tried to tell him I was fine.
But the words never came.
The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me was the fury in his eyes. A promise that whoever had done this would regret ever learning my name.
Movement.
That was the first thing I felt.
The world tilted violently around me. The cold leather of my car beneath my back. The distant voices of my men. The sound of tires tearing through the roads of Palermo.
Then came the blinding white lights.
A hospital.
The ceiling above me changed from the darkness of night to the sterile brightness of a private medical facility overlooking the Sicilian coast.
Voices surrounded me.
Doctors.
Nurses.
Fear.
Then Leo's voice cut through everything.
Cold.
Deadly.
“If he dies, every person responsible for failing him will wish they had.”
The threat was not loud. It did not need to be.
Everyone in Sicily knew who Leonardo Moretti was.
And everyone knew who I was.
Lucian Kane.
The man whose name opened doors and closed graves.
“You treat him,” Leo continued, his voice dangerously calm. “And you treat him properly. Or I swear this hospital will remember tonight for the rest of its existence.”
A blur of white coats moved around me.
Someone shouted for supplies.
Someone mentioned surgery.
Then a softer voice.
Young.
Uncertain.
“I can't. I'm not experienced enough for this kind of injury.”
An older voice interrupted sharply.
“You will.”
Silence.
“Take him to Operating Room Seven. Now, Stella.”
Then everything disappeared.
Consciousness returned slowly.
Not like waking up.
Like drowning and finally reaching the surface.
The first thing I noticed was the pain.
A deep, brutal ache burning through my side.
The second was the smell.
Antiseptic.
Clean sheets.
A hospital.
The third was the sound.
A steady, irritating beep.
I was alive.
Annoying.
But alive.
I forced my eyes open.
The room immediately told me everything I needed to know.
Private.
Expensive.
Secure.
The walls were polished, the equipment advanced, and the silence too controlled.
A hospital room built for powerful people who preferred privacy.
My eyes moved automatically, searching.
The door.
The windows.
Possible exits.
Weak points.
Old habits never died.
The blinds were partially open, allowing the pale gray morning light of Sicily to spill into the room. Outside, somewhere beyond the glass, I could hear the distant sound of waves crashing against the coastline.
Beautiful.
Peaceful.
A world completely separate from mine.
The door opened.
A nurse stood there.
She froze.
Her eyes met mine.
And immediately, fear replaced surprise.
“H-he's awake,” she whispered.
Not to me.
To whoever was outside.
“Oh God. He's awake.”
Then she disappeared.
Her footsteps rushed down the hallway.
A small smile touched my lips.
Fear.
A useful thing.
It made people honest.
It made them predictable.
Minutes passed.
The monitor continued its irritating rhythm.
Then I heard footsteps.
Different ones.
Soft.
Careful.
A shadow appeared behind the glass panel of the door.
Whoever stood there took a deep breath before entering.
And then she walked in.
For one ridiculous second, I forgot about the pain.
She was young.
Too young.
Her chocolate brown hair was pulled into a neat bun, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. Her features were soft, almost too gentle for the world I lived in.
She wore a white doctor’s coat over simple clothing, the fabric making her look even smaller against the cold hospital room.
Five feet five, maybe.
Small.
But not fragile.
Her chocolate brown eyes remained fixed on the medical chart in her hands, scanning every detail as if those pages held the answer to everything.
Her fingers tightened around the clipboard.
Nervous.
Afraid.
But she walked in anyway.
Interesting.
She looked completely out of place.
Like someone had taken a candle and placed it in the middle of a battlefield.
A strange, inconvenient spark of attraction moved through me.
I immediately dismissed it.
Pain.
Blood loss.
Medication.
Nothing more.
She finally looked up.
Those warm brown eyes met mine.
“Mr. Kane,” she said softly. “You're awake.”
I let a slow smirk form.
“It appears so.”
She swallowed before straightening.
“I'm Dr. Stella Roosevelt. I was assigned to your case.”
Assigned.
The word almost made me laugh.
“Assigned?” My voice came out rough from hours of silence. “Sweetheart, judging by your expression, you weren't assigned.”
I paused.
“You were sacrificed.”
Her eyebrows pulled together slightly.
I continued.
“They threw you into the lion's den and hoped you survived.”
Her spine straightened.
A little spark appeared behind those nervous eyes.
“I am a fully qualified doctor, Mr. Kane.”
There it was.
Defiance.
“I am perfectly capable of treating you.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Are you?”
Her confidence faltered.
Just slightly.
But I noticed.
I noticed everything.
“Because from where I'm standing,” I murmured, “you look like that clipboard is the only thing keeping you upright.”
Her fingers tightened around it.
“And you haven't come within ten feet of me.”
The flush that appeared on her cheeks told me I was right.
Her confidence faded for only a moment.
Then she took a breath.
A small one.
But enough.
She placed the clipboard on the side table and stepped closer.
One step.
Then another.
I watched her carefully.
Most people entered a room with me in it and immediately became smaller. Their voices changed. Their posture changed. They remembered exactly who they were standing in front of.
But Stella Roosevelt?
She was scared.
Terrified, actually.
Yet she still moved closer.
That was either courage or stupidity.
I hadn't decided which.
She glanced at the monitor beside me, quietly checking the readings.
“Blood pressure is stable,” she murmured. “Heart rate elevated, but that's expected. The surgical site looks good. No signs of complications.”
She wasn't talking to me.
She was talking herself through the process.
A habit.
A nervous one.
“You always talk to yourself, little doctor?”
Her eyes snapped toward mine.
“It is a clinical habit.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
She frowned slightly.
“I don't see what is interesting about monitoring my patient's condition.”
I almost smiled.
There was a little fire beneath all that softness.
“I do.”
She ignored my comment and reached toward the edge of my gown to check the dressing.
Her fingers were delicate.
Steady.
Despite the fear.
That surprised me.
The first time I saw her, I thought she was a fragile little thing who had accidentally wandered into a dangerous world.
But fragile things didn't perform surgery on men like me.
They didn't stand in front of monsters and pretend they weren't afraid.
The faint scent of lavender reached me as she leaned closer.
Not expensive perfume.
Not something artificial.
Just clean soap and something gentle.
Something that didn't belong anywhere near my world.
“Relax,” I said quietly.
Her eyes lifted.
“I don't bite the hand that saves me.”
A pause.
“Usually.”
Her expression told me she wasn't sure whether that was supposed to comfort her.
It wasn't.
She finished checking the wound and stepped back immediately.
“The surgery was successful,” she explained. “The bullet missed all major organs. However, you lost a significant amount of blood, and your body needs time to recover.”
She looked directly at me.
“No unnecessary movement. No physical strain. No attempts to leave before you're cleared.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You give orders often, Doctor?”
“When necessary.”
“And you think you can order me?”
Her expression remained serious.
“Yes.”
That answer caught me off guard.
Most people would have hesitated.
She didn't.
Interesting.
“For at least a week,” she continued, “you will follow my instructions. Otherwise, you risk reopening the wound and causing further complications.”
“A week?”
I looked at her like she had suggested something absurd.
“I have responsibilities.”
“You have a healing body.”
“I don't usually stay still.”
“Then you'll have to learn.”
A laugh escaped me.
A real one.
It pulled at my injury, sending a sharp wave of pain through my side.
But I couldn't stop.
She stared at me like she couldn't understand why I was laughing.
“You find this funny?”
“Actually, Doctor, I find you interesting.”
Her expression immediately became cautious.
I noticed.
She noticed everything too.
“I am your doctor, Mr. Kane.”
“And I'm your patient.”
“Exactly.”
The way she said it made it clear she wanted that boundary to remain.
Professional.
Simple.
Safe.
A pity.
She moved toward the door.
“I'll check on you again later.”
“Will you?”
She stopped.
I let my eyes meet hers.
“Because you seem very determined to avoid me.”
A faint look of annoyance crossed her face.
“I am trying to ensure my patient recovers.”
“Of course.”
She opened the door.
Then looked back.
“And Mr. Kane?”
“Yes?”
“Try not to make my job harder than it already is.”
For a moment, I just looked at her.
Then she left.
The door clicked shut.
The softness disappeared.
The reminder of who I was returned.
Lucian Kane.
Not a patient.
Not a wounded man.
The head of one of Sicily's most feared families.
The pain in my side was nothing compared to the anger burning beneath it.
The Volkovs had made a mistake.
A very expensive one.
The door opened again.
This time, there was no hesitation.
Leo entered.
He moved with the controlled precision of someone who had survived because he was always prepared.
His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on me.
“Boss.”
A pause.
“You look terrible.”
I leaned back against the pillow.
“Good to know you're concerned.”
“I am concerned.”
A beat.
“I'm just also honest.”
Despite myself, a small smile appeared.
“Report.”
Leo stepped closer.
“The Volkov operation is finished.”
My expression hardened.
“And?”
“Their warehouse outside Palermo belongs to us now.”
Good.
“The men responsible?”
“Handled.”
I didn't need details.
Leo understood that.
He always did.
“And the police?”
“Believe it was an internal dispute between rival organizations.”
Perfect.
I looked toward the window.
The morning sun was rising over Sicily.
Beautiful.
Peaceful.
Completely unaware of the war happening beneath its surface.
“Security?”
“Every entrance is covered. Men downstairs, on this floor, outside the hospital. Nobody gets close without permission.”
“Good.”
I shifted slightly.
A mistake.
Pain immediately shot through my side.
I hid the reaction.
Mostly.
Leo noticed anyway.
“You need to stop pretending you're made of stone.”
“I am.”
“No, you're not.”
I ignored him.
Then my eyes moved toward the door Stella had disappeared through.
“What about the doctor?”
Leo's expression changed.
Just slightly.
“The girl?”
“Stella Roosevelt.”
He studied me carefully.
“Twenty-five. Graduated at the top of her class. Finished her residency early. Brilliant doctor.”
A pause.
“But inexperienced with men like us.”
I remembered her trembling hands.
Her nervous voice.
Her stubborn eyes.
“She doesn't belong here.”
“No,” Leo agreed. “She doesn't.”
Silence settled.
Then Leo's voice became sharper.
“boss.”
I looked at him.
“Don't.”
My expression remained blank.
“Don't what?”
“Don't turn this into entertainment.”
A cold smile touched my lips.
“She is a doctor, Leo. Not one of the women you think I'm referring to.”
“Exactly.”
His gaze hardened.
“She is innocent. Civilian. She lives in a world where problems are solved with medicine, not bullets.”
He stepped closer.
“She walked into your world because she had no choice.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Leo was one of the few people alive who could speak to me like that.
And survive.
“She was afraid,” I said quietly.
“Yes.”
“But she still operated.”
Leo sighed.
“That doesn't mean you drag her deeper.”
I looked away.
“I won't.”
“Good.”
“She is just a curiosity.”
Leo didn't look convinced.
I continued.
“A lamb that wandered into a den of wolves.”
A pause.
“Nothing more.”
Leo watched me for a moment before nodding.
“I'll be outside.”
He left.
The room became silent again.
The monitor beeped.
The pain remained.
But my mind refused to focus on either.
Instead, it returned to one thing.
A pair of chocolate brown eyes.
Eyes that looked afraid.
But refused to look away.
Stella Roosevelt.
The doctor who had stepped into my darkness with nothing but a white coat and a stubborn heart.
A lamb in my den of wolves.
And for the first time in years…
Recovery didn't feel quite so unbearable.
