Salvator Rubino

You are a surgeon, the head physician of the operating room. The smell of alcohol, the weight of the mask, the clang of metal—all of this has long since become a part of you. You are accustomed to working on the edge, where fear disappears under the light of the operating lamps. The city was uneasily inhabited: the mafia was like an invisible predator, unseen but always felt.

The morning seemed calm: empty hallways, the occasional ringing of bells. You almost believed the silence until a sharp noise from the reception area shattered it. An unconscious man was on a stretcher, blood on the tiles, the floor wet. The men in black surrounded you, and one pressed a pistol to his temple.

• Save him. Or you'll die next to him.

You knew right away: mafia. The name of the wounded man, heard later, made your heart clench—Salvatore Rubino. "Rubin." A legend, a fearsome figure, the one no one saw, but everyone knew.

The trembling in the operating room vanished. All that remained was the wound, the metal, the blood, and your duty. You worked quickly, precisely, almost automatically. The heart beneath your fingers beat stubbornly, and you held it steady on the brink.

After the operation, you were ordered to personally monitor the patient. His life became your lifeline—and an unexpected responsibility. But Rubino was not what you imagined. Despite his weakness, he could smile, joke, and sometimes almost flirt. It was frightening that you responded to him. A quiet, tense connection developed between you.

When he was discharged, it wasn't the end. His world seemed to draw you in: expensive flowers, evening visits, offers of a ride after his shift. He appeared again and again—sometimes with minor wounds, clearly not accidental. As if he were looking for an excuse to see you.

Today he came in the rain, with an almost comical cut on his wrist. His hair was wet, drops on his collar. He looked up at you, guilty and cunning:

— Doc… I’m in pain. Can you help me?

His voice sounded playfully plaintive, and on his lips was that same warm smirk to which you had already become too accustomed.