It wasn’t just a doctor who came. It was a small army.

The doctor arrived first, with a nurse practitioner, a physician’s assistant, IV antibiotics, a cooler with two bags of B positive donor blood, and medical equipment in tow. Next came two blacked-out SUVs full of men with guns. Two more vehicles arrived with three concerned brothers and one very intimidating patriarch who introduced himself as Matteo’s father, Giovanni. Except for his sons, everyone else referred to him as Dom Visconti.

Beth felt like she’d landed in the middle of Godfather Four.

The large, dormitory-style bedroom down the hall was set up as an operating suite. They pushed a gurney into Matteo’s room, lifted him from the bathtub, and wheeled him to the makeshift field hospital.

Essentially shut out of the suite by his family members and the medical team, Beth chose to make herself useful and started the first pot of coffee in what was certain to be an endless round. She needed something more and went for one of the cans of beer that someone had thoughtfully left in the refrigerator, along with food items like pasta, flour, and oatmeal—things that would get bugs if left sitting too long on a shelf.

“Is there more where that came from?” One of the brothers stepped into the kitchen. All of them had similar coloring and she’d been too rattled to match names with anything that set Giovanni’s sons apart.

“Sure,” she said, opening the refrigerator and retrieving a second beer. “Here you go. I’m Beth.”

Bohemian-looking Son Number Two took it. “Val. Thanks for the beer. And for taking care of my brother. Doc says you did a good job. He wishes his stitches were as neat as yours.”

She shook her head. “I tried to sterilize everything.” She had soaked the threaded needle in alcohol before closing his wound. “And he still got a fever.”

“Fevers happen. It’s possible there are microscopic fibers from his shirt in there. Doc will debride the tissue and make sure everything is cleaned out. Matteo’s tough. Get a little blood and some antibiotics in him, and he’ll bounce back in no time.”

Beth took a long draw from her can. “I hope so. God, I hope so.” She thought twice, then asked Val, “I don’t understand why he didn’t just call for a medic in the first place.”

Val took a moment to answer, too. “He was on vacation. We had to fly him home. Plane problems made him miss a connecting flight. He got here late.”

“Miss Shelton?” One of the armed guards stood where the kitchen floor gave way to the living room carpet. “Mr. Visconti will see you now.”

Nervous about the summons, Beth looked at Val. His gaze had drifted to a point beyond her, searching for the right words to offer her. “It will be okay. Just give him honest answers. The family owes you a debt. We don’t take that lightly. Capisci?”

Right now, she’d take what she could get. “Thank you. Save my beer for me, please. I plan to finish that and at least one more.”

Mr. Visconti was in Matteo’s room. There was no hiding the smell of sex in the air, or the evidence of it on the sheets. And there was no hiding the blush that flooded her face and spilled down to her chest. It felt almost as bad as being caught in the act.

Mr. Visconti took the office chair that she’d used to move Matteo. “Please, sit,” he said, motioning to one of a pair of upholstered chairs in the sitting area of the room.

Matteo’s father was a handsome man, well-dressed and still attractive despite his age. With olive skin, piercing blue eyes, and thick, salt-and-pepper hair, he was a silver fox. A sly, silver fox. Nothing escaped his notice.

Beth sank onto the striped upholstery and clasped her shaking hands in her lap.

“I must thank you for helping my son. Matteo can be very stubborn. He gets that from his mother, God rest her soul.”

Mr. Visconti crossed himself and touched the side of his finger to his lips. The simple gesture made him seem less frightening and more approachable. “I don’t want to be rude,” she said, “but if someone has a phone that I can use to call my work and let them know that I won’t be in again today, I would appreciate it. Hopefully, I still have a job to go back to. They may have fired me already.”

Mr. Visconti pulled a notebook and a Cross pen from his tailored jacket.

“Where do you work?”

“Southern Mercy Hospital in Marion. I’m a physical therapist.”

“Who is your immediate superior, the person to report to?”

“The Director of Physical Therapy, Stanley Payne. P-A-Y-N-E.”

He almost smiled at the name when he wrote it down. “And who is Mr. Payne’s superior?”

“Eve Donovan, Director of Therapeutic Services.”

“And her superior?”

“The hospital administrator, Kelly Nolte.”

He looked at the names and nodded. “I’ll see that you get an excused absence,” he told her. “Perhaps an allergic reaction to red dye #40 that required bed rest to recover?”

Beth jerked her head. “How did you—”

He waved an imperious hand. “There is very little that I don’t know, Miss Shelton. By the way, the security camera footage from the convenience store has been handled, and your car is parked at your apartment. As soon as the doctor has had a chance to examine you, I’ll see that you’re taken there. Meanwhile, I would like you to do something for me. Paolo!”

One of the soldiers came into the room, carrying a glass of water and a package that, for some women, held a single, life-changing pill. To her, it was a sad reminder of everything that she lacked in her life.

“For your own good, as well as his,” he said. Taking the package from Paolo, he pushed the tablet through the foil bottom into the palm of his hand and brought it to her with the glass of water.

Beth took it. She told herself that she would have done it anyway. Although by no means promiscuous, she had taken a morning-after pill once before. Except for the single night when passion overruled her better judgment, she practiced safe sex when she had it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that often, but that was her fault. She was too damn picky about her partners. Lately, she’d been scratching her itch in threesomes with one-handed reads and battery-operated boyfriends.

Mr. Visconti nodded his approval. “Thank you for saving my son,” he said. His voice cracked slightly, betraying the first emotion that she’d seen in him. He might be the head of a crime family, but right now, he was a father who had nearly lost a child. “You took care of Matteo. I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”

She wanted to argue with him. She didn’t want to feel indebted, but the truth was, she needed all the help that she could get to keep her job and her licenses. She loved being a physical therapist. She loved helping people. Nothing brought more joy than seeing their efforts rewarded and their work pay off when they regained use of their bodies after an illness, injury, or surgery.

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

“Tell me, what are your plans?”

It was an odd question that she didn’t quite know how to answer. “It looks like I’ll finish recovering from an allergic reaction and hopefully be back to work tomorrow.”

The corner of his lips tilted in the hint of a smile. “Thursday seems so rushed. Let’s see what the doctor says. He may want you to take the rest of the week off. Monday will come soon enough, yes?”

It was pointless to object. Whatever was going to happen, her fate was in Giovanni Visconti’s hands. The man was a master puppeteer, and he’d tethered her in strings like he had everyone else in his sphere. Doctors, mob soldiers, hospital department heads—hell, probably law enforcement officers, lawyers, and judges danced to his tune.

For better or worse, she had tied her future to the Visconti family the minute that she’d walked out of the store with his son.

Mr. Visconti nodded at the soldier who had been sent to summon her. “Paolo, a phone, please. Miss Shelton needs to make a call.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Paolo pulled out a flip phone, turned it on, and handed it to her. It looked like one of those cheap ones with prepaid minutes, which made sense, given the situation. No trace, no tracks. A burner phone, just like they used in the motorcycle club erotic novels that she loved.

She made the call.

It went to voicemail.

“Stan, this is Beth Shelton. It looks like I’m off work on doctor’s orders until Monday. He’s blaming red dye #40. I’ll bring in a note to cover this week. I’ll see you next Monday. Thanks.”

Mr. Visconti looked impressed. She hadn’t lied. She hadn’t actually said that she’d had a reaction, just that the doctor was blaming the dye that had nearly killed her once. Thankfully, she’d been in the hospital cafeteria when she’d gone into anaphylactic shock.

Matteo’s father reminded Beth of a telepathic psychic she’d once met. The telepath had asked questions and listened to Beth’s answers, but it was just to be polite. He had heard the responses in her head before she’d said them aloud.

Mr. Visconti knew exactly who she was. He might ask for her name and about her job, but he knew her medical history, for Christ’s sake. He had tampered with evidence and had her car moved.

He knew where she lived.

Oh, he said that he’d take care of her, but coming from a mob boss, that was open to interpretation. After an initial jump to a hopeful conclusion, the pendulum was threatening to swing to the worst case scenario.

Beth closed the phone and handed it back to Paolo. “Thank you.”

Mr. Visconti put his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his hands. When he tapped the center of his chin with the tips of his index fingers, she had to wonder if he was rethinking everything and trying to decide what to do with her.

Beth was hard-pressed to not be intimidated, but the truth was, she’d felt close to peeing her pants more than once since Matteo’s father had come.

“I made coffee,” she blurted, rubbing her damp palms on her thighs. “I can bring you some if you’d like.”

The Dom lowered his hands and gave the slightest nod of approval. “Coffee sounds good,” he said. “Black is fine. Thank you.”

He smiled then, a rather wry and very rusty smile on a face that would never have laugh lines. Giovanni Visconti was a serious man, the head of a crime family that she had no idea existed before today. The pressure that came with the territory was beyond fathoming. This man had raised his children and kept them safe. Now one of them was wounded in his service. How would he deal with the guilt if Matteo died?

Blinking back tears, Beth rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Sorry. I’ll be right back.”

She made it to the hall before the tears came in earnest. There was no stopping them. She’d been as brave and as strong as a woman could possibly be under the circumstances but not once had she cried. With all the extra people, there was nowhere private she could go except the bathroom, and there was already someone in the hall, waiting to be next.

Beth stayed where she was. Leaning against the wall, she buried her face in her hands and wept. When two strong arms slipped around her, she found herself crying on the shoulder of Giovanni Visconti.

“Il mio povero agnello,” he crooned, patting her back. “My poor lamb.”

“I’m s-s-sorry,” she sobbed. “It’s just…” God, she couldn’t begin to describe what she was feeling right now. She was scared for Matteo but the larger part was empathy and concern for his father. She’d seen what losing the eldest son did to his parents. She hoped that Dom Visconti would weather it better than her father had.

“Sshh.” He rocked her gently. “I know. I know. But you’ve done all that you could. It is in God’s hands now. Anytime you want to leave, say the word and I will have Paolo drive you home.”

The offer sounded sincere. Although she still wasn’t one hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t have her snuffed on the way out the door.

“I’d like to stay until he’s stable, if you don’t mind,” she sputtered. If they actually let her go home, she’d drive herself nuts, wondering if Matteo had made it and how he was. “I still need to get your coffee. In another hour or two, I can fix breakfast for everyone. I’ll look in the basement. There’s a prepper’s pantry down there.” She’d found it when Matteo had drifted to sleep and she could safely steal a few minutes away.

“Or I can send someone to get what we need,” he said. “Come, Bethany. Let’s go to the kitchen. I can drink coffee, and you can write the shopping list for twenty. Wait. Some of the men eat double. Make it twenty-four. That should be easier. And a couple of my men can cook. You don’t have to do it.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, drying her cheeks and wiping her eyes with her fingers. “It will give me something to do besides worry.”

A headcount of two dozen would work well for eggs. She’d have to take her best guess at bread for toast but canned biscuits would be a snap. She could put some bacon in the oven to go with them. Maybe she should make some gravy…? Butter and jelly would be simpler. Or apple butter. Yes.

Mr. Visconti got his coffee. Beth made no apologies for finishing her beer while she worked on the grocery list. Or for grabbing another beer when the first can was empty. She’d only been drunk once in her life, at a cousin’s wedding where her high school sweetheart was a groomsman and she was a bridesmaid. The next morning, she’d awakened to the hushed conversation that Blaine was having with his wife. She didn’t wait until he was done. She’d thrown on her clothes and headed straight to the pharmacy for a morning-after pill.

Matteo’s father had spared her that much, anyway. She should be glad that he was a forward-thinking man who planned for contingencies, but part of her still cringed at the sight of that tablet in his hand, offering it to her like an act of absolution, with no penance to be done except in her own heart and mind. Her mother would have given her the guilt trip. Likely, her sister would have, too. Yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to feel remorse for yielding to Matteo and giving him what he wanted, what he needed.

For being his angel of mercy.

The pill that she’d taken might have officially ended their moment, but she doubted that she would ever forget.