Healing the Don

Dominica POV

I always thought the sound of peoples voices would fill this place. The small clinic I’d worked a decade to open was supposed to be a haven - a space where hard work, healing, and hope lived. But as I stood behind the front desk, staring at the sputtering coffee machine in the corner, all I heard was the hum of fluorescent lights and the shuffle of my assistant filing papers in the back room.

It wasn’t how I imagined it would be. When I first started med school, I dreamt of this moment - of owning my own practice. I had imagined bustling waiting rooms, the rush of patients needing care, the sense of fulfillment that came with being able to help. But reality had a way of cutting through dreams, and the reality was quieter.

Patients had been scarce today. Maybe they always would be. The neighborhoods I’d wanted to serve were full of people who needed care but couldn’t afford it. That didn’t matter to me. They came for help, and I would find a way to make it work.

The clinic wasn’t much - a small, modest space tucked away on the second floor of an old building. It had taken every ounce of my savings, every bank loan I could secure, to get it off the ground. And even then, I had to scrape and stretch every dollar to make it work. The paint on the walls was chipped in places, and the floors creaked when anyone walked across them. But it was mine.

I placed my hand against the cold counter, feeling the smooth, sterile surface beneath my fingers, and my gaze wandered around the room. The walls were still bare except for one framed photograph. My parents.

The photo was old - black-and-white, taken years before I was born. My mother’s smile was soft, warm, her arm resting casually around my father’s shoulders. He looked serious, his jaw sharp and angular, a far cry from the warm, laughing man I had grown up with.

I studied his face, feeling a knot form in my stomach. The eyes in the photograph were dark and unreadable, like he was hiding something even then. In my memories, my father had always seemed like an immovable rock - steady, dependable. But now, with the clinic open and the weight of responsibility pressing down on me, I saw him differently.

He’d been a good man, a good father, or so I had always thought. Until he wasn’t.

I clenched my jaw, the memory of his death still fresh and bitter in my mind. He had been murdered - shot in cold blood on a street I barely recognized. The news reports had labeled it a random act of violence, a tragic accident. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t an accident.

There were whispers - whispers I hadn’t dared to acknowledge at the time. My father had been involved in something dark, something dangerous. But those secrets died with him. Or so I thought.

My mother had always been a delicate woman, fragile even when I was younger. Her health had always been a concern, but nothing had prepared me for the news that she had been in the hospital when my father was killed. She had missed everything - the shock, the funeral, the questions, the whispers. When she finally recovered, all she knew was that my father was gone, and that the world we had once known was no longer safe.

I hated the look of pity people gave her, as though her fragile health somehow made her less able to deal with the weight of our loss. I had become her protector, her anchor, the one who made sure she didn’t fall apart completely.

This clinic had been my answer to everything. My father’s death had shaken me, but this clinic - this was my chance to do something real. I would never be able to replace the hole my father left, but I could create something that would help others, something that had purpose.

I had worked so hard to get here. Ten years of grueling hours, sleepless nights, and putting my personal life on hold just to be here, to finally have the chance to do good.

“Dr. Speer?” Clara’s voice cut through my thoughts, hesitant and quiet.

“Yes?” I called back, snapping my attention to the front desk. Clara was standing there, her hands wringing the hem of her sleeve.

“There’s someone waiting to see you,” she said, avoiding my gaze.

I frowned. “Who?”

“Well… three people, actually.”

“Three?” I repeated, confusion washing over me. Three wasn’t typical, especially for walk-ins.

“They… they said it’s important.”

I took a deep breath and pushed myself to my feet. “Let them in.”

Clara nodded quickly, hurrying off toward the front door.

I smoothed my lab coat, adjusted my stethoscope, and tried to ignore the flutter of anxiety stirring in my chest. The air felt different now - heavier, charged. Like something was about to change. But what?

When the door opened, I froze.

Three men stepped into the clinic, their presence overwhelming the small space. They were dressed in expensive, tailored suits, their sharp lines making the worn furniture and faded walls look even more out of place. Each of them had the same cold, impenetrable air about them, like they didn’t belong in a place like this.

But it was the man in the center who immediately caught my attention. He stood taller than the others, exuding an almost magnetic aura of control and power. His dark hair was slicked back, his face chiseled in a way that made him look like he’d stepped out of some dark, dangerous fantasy. His eyes met mine, and everything inside me went still.

There was something unnerving about him. A kind of coldness that seemed to seep into my bones.

He didn’t introduce himself at first. Instead, he let his gaze roam over the room, then back to me, like he was appraising me, measuring me in some way I couldn’t understand.

“Dr. Speer,” he said, his voice smooth, like velvet poison flowing from his lips

I swallowed hard, trying to keep the rising sense of dread from consuming me. “Yes,” I said, forcing the word out.

“I’m Federico Diotallevi,” he continued, his eyes not leaving mine.

I couldn’t breathe.

Federico Diotallevi. The name hit me like a punch to the gut. His reputation preceded him - whispered in every corner of the city, feared and revered. The don of the Diotallevi mafia family.

What was he doing here? In my clinic?

The question burned inside me, but I couldn’t ask it. Not yet.

I forced myself to take a step forward, trying to mask the pounding of my heart. “What can I do for you, Mr. Diotallevi?”

He studied me for a long moment before responding. “We need to talk, Dr. Speer.”

His words hung in the air, thick with meaning, and I knew - without a shadow of a doubt - that nothing good was about to happen.