Chapter 1

Ten years ago, my husband let his mistress carve open our daughter's chest just so she could get some "hands-on experience." Today, that same woman brought her own dying child to my operating table.

I'm staring at the intake file on my phone when the call comes in.

Ten-year-old girl. Gunshot wound, through-and-through to the abdomen. Hemorrhagic shock. They're pulling up to my clinic in four minutes.

I know that face before I even scroll to the mother's name. Sienna Moretti. Don Vance's woman. The one who killed my daughter.

I flip the phone face-down.

"I'm not taking this one."

The line goes dead silent.

Doc. You're joking, right?" The dispatcher's voice cracks. "Last month you ran seven hours straight on three Bratva soldiers, alone. You're the steadiest blade we have south of the river."

"I said I'm not taking it. Reroute her. Don't waste my time."

I hang up.

I haven't even pulled my gloves off when Marcus shoves through the door, sweating through his collar.

"Elena. Don't move."

"There's nothing to talk about, Marcus."

"Just listen." He shuts the door behind him like he's afraid I'll bolt.

"Through-and-through gut wound. Hemorrhagic shock. Pressure's bottomed out. No other surgeon in this city will even touch a case like this. Only you can run that table."

"Then transfer her."

"Transfer her where?" His voice climbs. "The streets are locked down. There just was a hit two blocks over. She won't survive the drive."

I straighten my cuffs. I don't answer.

"Elena, is it the equipment? I'll get you anything. Blood, gas, instruments, two anesthesiologists, whatever the hell you want. Name it."

"It's not the equipment."

"Then what is it?"

"Personal."

"Personal?" He nearly chokes.

"There's a ten-year-old bleeding out on my table and you're telling me personal?"

Word is already out. Nurses and runners cluster in the hall, whispering loud enough for me to hear.

"Thought she was supposed to be the ethical one."

"She's a kid. What did the kid do?"

"Whatever the beef is, you don't take it out on a child."

I don't blink. I just glance at the clock above the door.

"Marcus. You just wasted five more minutes."

"Find someone else. Clock's ticking. I'd start dialing."

I turn to leave.

A voice cuts from the back of the crowd.

"Hey, Doc. Wasn't your kid the one who died in a back-alley clinic like this one? You really gonna let another little girl bleed out on the floor?"

My whole body locks up.

My phone screen is still glowing on the counter. The girl in the photo is laughing, dimples cut deep into both cheeks.

Gianna had the exact same age. The exact same face.

I close my eyes.

If Dominic hadn't handed my baby's body to Sienna Moretti so she could practice, none of this would even be a story.

The hallway door bangs open.

A woman in a blood-streaked Valentino dress staggers in, clutching a kid-sized jacket soaked through. She grabs the nearest nurse by the arm and shakes her.

"Who's the surgeon? Please — please — somebody save my daughter!"

The nurse's eyes flick to me.

Sienna follows the look. Her gaze lands on my face and stops.

"You. You're the one?"

I don't answer.

She lurches forward, ripping open her purse, and dumps everything at my feet — black cards, a stack of cashier's checks, bricks of hundreds bound in rubber bands.

"What's the problem? You want money? Name it."