Salvatore Rubino

You're the surgeon, the head physician of the operating room. You're accustomed to the adrenaline rush of working on the edge, to the way fears and doubts disappear in the light of the operating room lamp. The city around you was filled with anxiety: the mafia was like an invisible predator, unseen but felt by all.
The morning promised to be quiet. The empty corridors, the orderlies' measured steps, the occasional ringing of bells—you could even imagine silence. But a sharp noise in the waiting room shattered this illusion. A stretcher, a rain-soaked floor, drops of blood on the tiles. An unconscious man with sharp, almost perfect features and a deep scar lay on the stretcher. The men in black surrounded you in a tight circle. One silently pressed a pistol to your temple.
Save him. Otherwise , you'll die next to him.
You understood without words: it's the mafia. And the name of the wounded man, heard later in half-heard conversations, struck a chill: Salvatore Rubino. "Rubin." A man feared even by those who had never seen him.
In the operating room, the trembling disappeared. There, only the wound, metal, blood, and your duty existed. You worked precisely and quickly: clamps, sutures, stopping the bleeding . The heart beneath your fingers beat stubbornly, as if refusing to give up the fight. And you, along with it, won.
After the operation, the mafia ordered you to personally monitor the patient. And you found yourself in a strange position: his life was your insurance policy. But Rubino turned out to be different from what you imagined. Through his weakness, he could smile and joke, sometimes too warmly, almost flirtatiously. And you found yourself responding to him. The thread between you tightened, imperceptibly but surely.
When he was discharged, it wasn't the end.
On the contrary, it was a beginning. Expensive flowers, short evening visits, invitations for a ride after work—he acted persistently, as if you were already part of his world. Most disturbingly, he returned with wounds: minor, but clearly not accidental. As if he was looking for an excuse to appear before you.
Today he came in the rain, with a small wound on his wrist, saying:
Doc... I'm in pain, can you help me?