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Lauren

A week had passed since Miguel’s surgery, and I was finally allowing myself to believe he’d make a full recovery.

His fever had broken on day three, the infection responding beautifully to our precious antibiotics.

Two days ago, he’d sat up on his own, asking when he could return to work—a question that both relieved and worried me in equal measure.

Then yesterday morning, he’d been gone. I had no doubt he’d be back to work soon, if he wasn’t already. Around here, if you didn’t work, your family starved.

I was back to the familiar rhythm of treating everything the jungle could throw at us.

My back ached as I straightened from examining Mrs. Perez’s infected leg wound, the third diabetic ulcer I’d treated this morning.

The generator sputtered outside, struggling to power our ancient equipment in the sweltering midday heat.

“Lauren, you should eat something,” Sophia called from across the room, her practical tone leaving no room for argument. “You’ve been treating patients nonstop all morning.”

I glanced at my watch—almost three p.m. I’d been seeing patients since sunrise with only coffee and a protein bar, but at least today felt manageable.

“I’ll grab something in a minute,” I promised, knowing I probably wouldn’t. “Just need to finish with the Alverez family first.”

Sophia shook her head. “That’s what you said three hours ago. Your patients need you healthy too.”

If there was one thing Patrick had always made known, it was that missing a meal wasn’t going to hurt me. I definitely had enough meat on my bones—he’d always loved calling me his little linebacker . I wasn’t overweight, but I definitely wasn’t delicate and feminine either.

But also… fuck Patrick.

Before I could force myself to eat something just to spite my asshole ex-boyfriend, the distinctive sound of vehicles approaching fast made both Sophia and me freeze.

Not the usual sputtering trucks of local farmers or the measured pace of supply deliveries.

This sound was different—aggressive, urgent.

My stomach dropped. In our time here, vehicles arriving at high speed meant one thing: violence. Whether cartel disputes, gang retaliation, or civilians caught in the crossfire, we’d seen it all. The wounds that came through our doors told the story of a region where brutality was currency.

“Expecting anyone?” Sophia asked, though her tight expression said she already knew the answer.

I moved to the window, pulling back the threadbare curtain. Three black SUVs with tinted windows kicked up clouds of dust as they skidded to a halt in our small courtyard. Expensive vehicles. Military-grade by the look of them.

“No,” I said, my mouth suddenly dry. “Definitely not expecting this.”

My pulse hammered as armed men poured out of the vehicles, assault rifles slung across their chests.

In their midst, others supported four bloodied figures who seemed barely able to stand.

The tactical gear, the coordination, the sheer number of weapons—this wasn’t some local gang dispute. This was cartel.

“Wounded incoming,” I called out, already moving toward the door despite every instinct screaming at me to hide. “Sophia, prep the treatment room.”

I’d learned to mask my fear in situations like this, but the deliberate show of force made my hands tremble slightly as I pushed through the clinic’s front doors. Whatever had happened, whoever these men were, they wanted us to know exactly how outgunned we were.

Considering we had zero guns, that wasn’t very hard.

The armed men parted as a figure emerged from the middle SUV.

Even without the protective circle of gunmen, he would have commanded attention.

He wore an impeccably tailored white linen shirt and jacket, despite the heat and humidity.

His movements were languid yet purposeful as he surveyed the clinic, hands casually resting in the pockets of his expensive slacks.

When his gaze fell on me, I felt an involuntary chill that had nothing to do with fear of his weapons. There was something calculating in the way he looked at me—not the clinical assessment of a businessman or the dismissive glance of someone used to power. This was personal. And not in a good way.

He was handsome in a slick and suave way.

Classical features, perfectly styled dark hair, expensive clothes that fit like they were made for him.

But something slimy lurked underneath the surface polish.

Something that made my hair stand on end, even as I forced myself to maintain professional composure.

“You must be the American doctor,” he said in flawless English, his accent adding a musical quality to the words.

His smile revealed perfect white teeth, but it never reached his eyes, those amber eyes that seemed to be cataloging every detail of my appearance.

“I’ve heard about your…dedicated service to our community. ”

The way he said “dedicated service” made it sound obscene. I kept my expression neutral, though my heart hammered against my ribs. “I’m Dr. Valentino. These men need medical attention?”

“Such efficiency. I admire that. And that hair… I can see why they call you angel.” He approached, extending his hand with the confidence of someone who expected immediate compliance. “Mateo Silva. These men work for me and my father. They encountered some…trouble in a nearby village.”

Silva. The name hit me like a physical blow. Diego Silva controlled everything within a hundred-mile radius—drugs, weapons, local politics. His cartel’s fingerprints were on every aspect of life in this region.

And this was his son, standing before me like royalty expecting obeisance. The predatory gleam in his eyes made my skin feel too tight.

I ignored his outstretched hand, fighting the urge to step backward. “Bring the wounded inside. Anyone who isn’t injured stays out here.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before morphing into something that might have been amusement—or irritation. I couldn’t tell which was worse. “As you wish, Doctor.”

I turned and walked back inside, feeling his eyes on me like a physical touch. I couldn’t stop the feeling that I’d just made a tactical error…made myself more interesting to Mateo Silva by not cowing to him like everyone else.

The center of this man’s attention was a very dangerous place to be.

“Dr. Yang, pressure dressing.” I extended my hand without looking up from the gaping machete wound on my patient’s forearm.

Sophia placed the dressing in my palm. We worked in practiced synchrony, having treated similar wounds too many times before. Defensive injuries from machete attacks were depressingly common in our clinic. Usually, the victims were farmers or small business owners who’d somehow crossed the cartels.

But I didn’t normally do this sort of work with the cartel leader himself watching from the doorway. Mateo Silva had followed me in after we’d divided the patients between our two treatment areas.

“How’s it going in the other room?”

“Blunt force trauma to the face and ribs,” Sophia reported. “Concussion. Three in total. Drs. Martinez and Williams have it covered.”

I’d seen enough cartel violence to recognize the pattern. These weren’t the injuries of men who had encountered “resistance.” These were the wounds of aggressors who had met unexpected defense. The question was: what village had been unlucky enough to fight back?

“In what village did this happen?” I asked the man whose arm I was stitching. It wouldn’t have been the village just a few hundred meters from our clinic, or I would’ve already heard about it.

The man flinched, eyes darting to the doorway where Mateo leaned against the frame, watching us work with detached interest. Even across the room, his presence felt suffocating. Like a spider watching flies struggle in its web.

“Doctor, these men are not authorized to speak to you,” Mateo said smoothly, his tone conversational but carrying an unmistakable threat. “My men were simply delivering a message to the villagers on behalf of my father.”

I tied off the suture with perhaps more force than necessary, trying to ignore how his voice made my skin crawl. “Messages don’t usually require machetes and firearms.”

Mateo pushed off from the doorframe and approached, his movements reminiscent of a predator—unhurried because escape was impossible. Everything about him radiated controlled violence wrapped in expensive packaging.

“Some people need more…persuasive communication,” he said, running a finger along the edge of the metal examination table. The casual gesture felt purposely intimate, like he was testing boundaries. “Especially when they forget who protects them.”

I finished bandaging the wound before looking up at Mateo, fighting every instinct that told me to avoid eye contact. His amber eyes held mine with an intensity that made my stomach turn. There was something possessive in his gaze, as if he were already imagining owning me.

“We treat everyone here, Mr. Silva. That’s our job. But I won’t pretend I don’t know what these injuries mean.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, the only indication that my directness had surprised him. “Careful, Doctor. Curiosity can be dangerous in Corazón.”

“So can intimidation.” Ignoring the small sound of distress that came from Sophia.

I peeled off my gloves with a sharp snap, using the motion to step away from him.

Even a few extra inches of distance felt like a small victory.

“Your men will recover. The sutures need to stay clean and dry. They should go to a medical professional in a week to have them removed.” Just not here.

He studied me with new interest, and I had the horrible sensation that I’d just made myself more appealing rather than less. Like my defiance was exactly what he’d been hoping for.