Chapter 1: supply closet
The supply closet on Floor 3 wasn’t supposed to be locked at 3:11 AM.
But it was. And there was blood seeping under the door.
I’m Mia Torres. Night cleaner. St. Michael’s General. Thirteen dollars an hour to pretend I don’t see things.
I see everything.
I knocked. “Maintenance. Open up.”
A voice, tight with pain: “F*ck off.”
Then a deeper one. Calm. Cold. Lethal. “Leave, or you’re fired.”
I knew that second voice. Everyone did.
Dr. Ares Callahan. Thirty-five. Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery. Billionaire heir to Callahan Medical Group. His family donated the cardiac wing. Women’s Health called him “The Angel of St. Michael’s” last month.
And right now, he was behind a locked supply closet with someone bleeding out.
I used my master key.
One: A man on the floor, unconscious, a bullet hole in his shoulder. Luca Romano. Underboss for the Romano crime family. Wanted for three murders.
Two: Blood pooling around the shelving.
Three: Dr. Ares Callahan, sleeves rolled up, pressing a towel to Luca’s chest with one hand, forceps in the other. No gloves. No nurses.
He looked up. His scrub top was soaked crimson. He didn’t look like a billionaire surgeon.
He looked like a mafia killer.
“Get out,” he said.
I should have run. Instead I saw the problem. He needed a clamp, hands were busy.
I grabbed a sterile clamp, broke the package, and slapped it into his hand.
He used it. One minute of silence. Click of steel.
Ares exhaled. “He’ll live.”
Then he looked at me. The angel was gone.
“You saw nothing,” he said.
“I saw you save a life,” I lied.
“You saw me commit ten felonies, Mia Torres.”
He knew my name.
“I know every person who works nights in my hospital,” he said. “Especially the ones working doubles to pay for their little sister’s kidney meds.”
Rosa. He knew about Rosa.
“Are you going to kill me?”
He stood. 6’4. The closet was a coffin. “I should.”
“Please. My sister’s ten—”
“I don’t kill women who hand me clamps.” He stepped closer. “But I can’t let you leave.”
“So what?”
He typed on his phone. Mine buzzed.
*WELLS Fargo: Deposit $10,000.00*
“Retainer,” he said. “Congratulations, Miss Torres. You’re now my wife.”
I laughed, broken. “What?”
“You saw a mafia underboss get illegal surgery from me. You’re a witness. If the feds find you, my family burns. If my family finds you, you die.” He tilted his head. “Marriage solves both. Spousal privilege. You can’t testify against me. As my wife, you’re under Callahan protection.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. I did. Paperwork was filed as of 60 seconds ago.” He showed me his phone. Marriage certificate. `Ares Callahan` and `Mia Torres`. 3:14AM. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Callahan.”
“That’s not legal. I didn’t sign—”
“You will. Tonight. Or I call CPS about the minor you leave alone for 12-hour shifts. Unfit guardian. They’ll take Rosa by morning.”
Marry him or lose Rosa. Not a choice.
“Why me?”
His eyes dropped to my hands. “Because you didn’t run. And because this marriage is my revenge.”
“Revenge on who?”
He smiled. It wasn’t nice. “On my father. He put the hit on Luca. He thinks I’m still his loyal son. Tomorrow he finds out I married a witness and now you control half his empire if I die. The Callahan fortune transfers to the spouse. He can’t kill me without making you a billionaire.”
Billionaire’s. Revenge. Marriage.
The title was real.
He nudged Luca with his boot. The man groaned.
“Clean this up,” Ares said. “Then pack a bag. My men get you at 6am. You move into the penthouse today.”
He walked to the door. Paused.
“Rule one, Mia. Never lie to me. Rule two. Never go into my clinic without me. Rule three.” He looked back, expression hungry. “Never flinch when I touch you. We need to sell this to my father.”
His knuckles brushed my cheek, leaving blood. It should have terrified me.
It didn’t.
“Understood, Mrs. Callahan?”
I was married to a billionaire mafia surgeon.
For revenge
