Page 501 of Rosetti Family New York

"Good," he says, his hands tightening possessively on my waist. "Because now that you've chosen to stay, now that you've accepted what you are…" His eyes darken with intent that's both thrilling and slightly terrifying. "I'm going to show you exactly what it means to belong to me. What it means to be claimed by a man who's never letting you go."

The way he's looking at me—like he's planning to take me apart piece by piece and put me back together marked as his—makes my breath catch. There's something different in his expression now, something that wasn't there before I made my choice. Like my decision to embrace being a Rosetti has unleashed something in him that he's been holding back.

"Van," I whisper, but I don't know if it's a question or a plea.

His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch gentle but his eyes promising anything but gentleness. "You have no idea what you've just agreed to, sunshine. But you're going to learn."

19 - Van

All I can think about as I walk into this sterile fucking tribunal is her—spread beneath me two nights ago, trusting me completely while these bastards plot to destroy everything else I've built. After Dom's midnight call led to nothing but a false alarm about Sofia's security detail, after Carmela and I spent yesterday processing the escalating Torrino threats Luca had warned us about, I'm walking into this boardroom knowing exactly what coordinated warfare looks like.

The boardroom feels like a court-martial waiting room, harsh fluorescents casting shadows across mahogany. Three manila folders sit stacked in front of Dr.Hewson's chair, too neat, too prepared for whatever systematic destruction they have planned.

My military training kicks in automatically, cataloging exits and threat positions, but for the first time in three years, that battlefield awareness feels completely fucking useless. The phantom ache flares in my wrists as I take my seat, old rope burn scars prickling with sense memory of being restrained while patients died around me. Now they want to strip away my ability to save lives again, and all I can think about is how losing this means losing my ability to protect her.

"Van, thank you for coming." Hewson's tone carries the weight of bad news wrapped in professional courtesy. "We need to discuss some developments."

The board members avoid eye contact, shuffling papers with the nervous energy of people delivering a death sentence. I take my usual seat, noting how colleagues have been avoiding me in the halls, their whispers dying when I pass. The gossip network in hospitals moves faster than trauma alerts, but none of this institutional betrayal matters as much as the thought of failing her the way I failed my patients in Afghanistan.

She hummed while making coffee yesterday morning, that bright melody cutting through my nightmares like sunlight through smoke. Now these fuckers want to take away everything that lets me be worthy of her trust, everything we rebuilt together after the debt revelation, after she chose to embrace her family identity and our relationship.

Hewson opens the first folder. "We've received formal malpractice complaints regarding three recent cases. All filed within the last forty-eight hours." He slides photocopied documents across the table. "There are also preliminary inquiries from state regulatory boards about your licensing credentials and background verification."

The words tear through me while I think about how her green eyes went soft when I bound her wrists, how she whispered that she chose this, chose us, despite everything the Rosettis sacrificed for her protection. I scan the complaints—patients I saved, procedures that went perfectly. Every accusation reads like fiction, but the legal letterhead is real enough to destroy the life that finally gives me a reason to wake up each morning.

"These appeared overnight," I say, recognizing the coordinated timing I expected. Military precision turned against me whileshe sleeps safely in my bed, trusting that our reconciliation means something permanent.

"The hospital's insurance carrier has flagged your file for immediate review," Hewson continues, opening the second folder. "There are also questions being raised about your original credentials verification when you were hired."

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. Three years of rebuilding, of proving myself in trauma bays, of becoming the man she chose to trust with her submission—all dissolving exactly like my military career vanished with a court-martial stamp. The fluorescent lights make everything look clinical, like another fucking tribunal designed to strip away everything I have. But this time, I'm not just losing a career. I'm losing my ability to protect the one person who chose me despite the debt, despite the danger, despite everything.

"Dr.Reyes," the chief counsel's voice cuts through my thoughts of her soft sighs when I held her afterward. "The state medical board has opened a formal investigation into your license. We've been informed that previous employment verification may need to be re-examined."

The room tilts slightly as I remember her fingers tracing the scars on my wrists, accepting every broken piece of me without question. My license—the one the Rosettis helped me obtain, the clean identity that let me practice medicine and deserve her—is now threatened by the same planned dismantling that ended my military career. The insurance complications alone could destroy my ability to operate, even if the board investigation clears me.

"Hospital privileges are under immediate review pending resolution of these matters," Hewson adds, his words careful and clinical. "We're required to suspend your surgical schedule until further notice."

My hands remain steady on the mahogany surface, surgeon's control intact, but inside I'm watching my second life dissolve exactly like my military career did. The familiar weight of abandonment crushes down on me—that fucking recognition that no matter how valuable you make yourself, institutions will still cut you loose to protect themselves. She's the only thing worth saving in this shitshow, and they're trying to take away everything that makes me capable of protecting her.

"How long do I have?" I ask, proud that my voice remains steady while I think about her humming in my kitchen, bringing brightness to spaces that haven't seen light in years.

"Indefinitely," Hewson says. "These complaints need full investigation before any resolution is possible."

I'm studying the complaint documents in my office an hour later, trying to find patterns in the lies, when Dante Rosetti appears in my doorway, moving with that silent precision that always reminds me why smart people fear him. He carries a manila envelope and a small notebook—his usual tools for communication. The sight of him reminds me of what Luca told Carmela about the escalating situation, how the family has been coordinating our protection.

He closes the door behind him and slides the envelope across my desk without ceremony. Inside, I find a detailed writtenassessment of the attacks against me, complete with timelines, legal firm connections, and regulatory contact information. Everything documented with military-grade intelligence gathering.

Torrino family desperate,he writes in his notebook, turning it toward me.Using corrupt officials, trying to remove you before final confrontation. Strategic pattern.

I scan his analysis, recognizing the tactical precision that confirms what I already suspected after Luca's warnings about the coordinated campaign. Each complaint, each regulatory inquiry, each insurance complication—all coordinated strikes designed to isolate her by destroying my protection.

"The pattern is exactly what we expected," I say, and Dante nods.

You're thinking like doctor, not soldier,he writes.Medical mind focuses on individual problems. Strategic mind sees whole battlefield.

He's right. Despite knowing this was coming, I've been treating symptoms instead of staying focused on the coordinated campaign, too consumed by my need to be worthy of her trust to maintain proper battlefield perspective. His eyes hold mine for a long moment—one damaged soldier recognizing another's capacity for destruction.

Dante flips to a fresh page, his assessment brutally accurate.