Page 7 of Break For Me
He reaches out. His hand is huge, his fingers thick and scarred. He grabs the lapel of my charcoal coat, which I haven't even taken off yet.
"You're coming with me," he says.
"I have a surgery in the morning," I say. It’s a ridiculous thing to say. A reflex. A ghost of the man who used to have a schedule that mattered.
The man doesn't smile. He doesn't even blink. He just leans in, his face inches from mine, and I see the raw, red heat of his fury behind the flat eyes.
"You have a surgery tonight," he grunts. "And if the man on the table dies, you don't leave the room."
He yanks me forward. I stumble, my glasses slipping down my nose.
He doesn't wait for me to recover. He turns and drags me out of my apartment, past the splintered wood of my door and into the cold, empty hallway.
The Beluga Noble bottle is still on the counter. The photo of Elena is still in the drawer.
I am being collected.
I am a piece of equipment being moved to a new site.
And as the elevator doors close on my old life, I realize that for the first time in three years, I’m not afraid of the ending.
I’m afraid of the surgery.
Chapter Three
ROCCO
He’s smallerthan I expected.
The file said six-foot-one, one hundred and seventy pounds. Looking at him now, that weight seems like a gross overestimation. He’s all bone and tendon, a thin reed wrapped in an expensive wool coat that probably costs as much as my truck. He stands in his kitchen with the lights low, his tie loosened around a neck that looks like I could snap it with one hand.
He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t run for a phone or a knife. He just watches me with those pale blue eyes behind his glasses. I can see the gears turning. He’s taking my measure, cataloging the damage I’m carrying, filing me away in some sterile mental cabinet.
I step further into the room. The floorboard under my heavy boot groans—the third one from the left, a loud, dry sound that echoes in the empty apartment. The place is exactly what I expected from a man who lives in his own head. It’s a morgue.
Grey couch. Glass table with nothing on it. Bare white walls. It doesn’t look like a home; it looks like a stage set for a life he isn't actually living. There is a single glass sitting in the sink, a ghost of a drink he didn't finish. The whole place has the warmth of a stainless-steel tray.
"Grab your bag," I grunt. "You’re coming with me."
He doesn’t move. His eyes travel from my face—the split cheekbone, the blackening jaw, the dried blood on my temple—down to my hands. He looks at my swollen knuckles and the rust-colored stains on my henley. I can practically hear the medical terms clicking into place behind those lenses.
Blunt force trauma. Multiple contusions. Probable fracture.
He sees a monster. I see a tool.
"I don't know who you are." His voice is steady. Too steady. The low, controlled tone carries that particular arrogance—he thinks he’s the smartest person in the room. It makes my teeth itch. "But whoever sent you has made a mistake. I’m under the protection of the Volkov family."
"I know who owns you, Doc. Kazimir doesn't have a say in this."
I close the distance in two strides. He doesn’t retreat. His feet stay planted, but I see the tendons in his neck pull tight. His body is preparing for an impact his mind won't acknowledge.
"Your Russian handlers can file a complaint with my brother," I say. I’m close enough to smell him now—not rain or arrogance, but the sharp, biting scent of bergamot soap and hospital-grade antiseptic. "Right now, you’re getting your kit and you’re walking out that door with me."
"And if I refuse?"
I look at his hands. Long, elegant fingers. They are steady as stone, even with me looming over him. Surgeon’s hands. The only reason I’m standing in this air-conditioned cage instead of sleeping off my fight in a dark bar.
Alessandro needs those fingers. He needs the mechanic inside this man.
