The Mobster's Gilded Cage

Clara

The final click of the deadbolt echoes in the empty clinic. It’s a lonely sound, one I’ve gotten used to. The faint, clean scent of antiseptic clings to my scrubs, a perfume of failure these days. I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the door, staring out at the rain-slicked alley. Another day, another seventeen hours of trying to keep this place from sinking, and only one paying client. A Pomeranian with a stomach ache.

My reflection is a tired, watery ghost. Dark circles under my eyes, my blonde hair pulled into a messy bun that’s more mess than bun. I should go home. I should crawl into bed and pretend the mountain of red-stamped envelopes on my desk doesn’t exist.

A low groan cuts through the drumming of the rain.

I freeze, my hand still on the deadbolt. It sounded human. Animal pain I can handle. I live and breathe it. Human pain is a different territory, one I’ve actively avoided since leaving med school to pursue veterinary medicine. It’s too complicated. Too messy.

I peer deeper into the gloom of the alley, my heart starting to thud against my ribs. Another sound follows, a wet, ragged cough that ends in a choked gasp. It’s coming from behind the large green dumpster. My training, my entire being, screams at me to ignore it. To get in my car and drive away. To call the police from a safe distance. Any sane person would.

But the sound comes again, weaker this time. A whimper of pure agony.

My sanity loses the argument. It always does.

With a curse under my breath, I unlock the door and slip outside. The cold, damp air seeps into my clothes instantly. “Hello?” I call out, my voice barely a whisper. “Is someone there?”

Rain plasters loose strands of hair to my face as I inch towards the dumpster. The smell hits me first. Rain, wet pavement, and the sharp, coppery tang of blood. So much blood.

I round the corner of the dumpster and my breath catches in my throat. A man is slumped against the grimy brick wall, one long leg stretched out in the puddle forming on the asphalt. He’s dressed in a tailored black suit that’s soaked through and ruined, the white shirt beneath it stained a horrifying, glistening crimson. His head is lolled to the side, his face obscured by shadows and wet, dark hair.

“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Sir? Can you hear me? I’m calling an ambulance.”

I fumble for my phone, my fingers slick with rain and shaking uncontrollably. I dial the first nine. Then the first one. My thumb hovers over the last one.

His head moves, just a fraction of an inch. A low rasp escapes his lips. “No. No cops.”

The voice is deep, gravelly, and laced with an authority that cuts through his obvious pain. It stops me cold. No cops? What kind of person gets shot and doesn’t want the police?

I take a hesitant step closer. “You’re bleeding. You’re bleeding a lot. You’ll die out here.”

His hand lifts, a weak, clumsy gesture towards me. “Help… me.”

I look at his face then, really look. Even in the dim light, pale and strained with pain, he’s beautiful. Dangerously so. A strong jaw dusted with dark stubble, a straight nose, lips that look like they were carved from stone. This is not some random mugging victim. This man radiates a power that even his current state can’t completely hide.

My mind races. If I call the police, he might die before they arrive. If I leave him, he will definitely die. If I help him… what am I getting myself into?

I look down at my hands. Hands that have set broken bones in kittens and stitched up dogs mauled in fights. Hands that know anatomy, muscle, and tissue. It’s not human medicine, but it’s not nothing.

“Okay,” I hear myself say, the word tasting like madness on my tongue. “Okay. I can help you. But you have to help me. You have to get up.”

I holster my phone, my decision made. God help me.

Getting him inside is a nightmare. He’s heavy, all solid muscle and dead weight. I hook his arm over my shoulders, my back screaming in protest as I half-drag, half-carry him across the twenty feet of pavement to my clinic door. He groans with every jolting step, his breath hot and ragged against my neck. We finally stumble inside, and I slam the door shut, locking it again with a trembling hand.

“The table,” I pant, gesturing to the stainless steel examination table in the center of the room. “Get on the table.”

He practically collapses onto it, his head falling back with a thud. I flick on the bright surgical lamp, flooding him in stark, unforgiving light. The full extent of the damage is sickening. The bullet wound is on his right side, a nasty, torn hole just below his ribs. It’s bleeding sluggishly now, but the sheer amount of blood on his clothes tells me it was much worse earlier.

“I have to cut your shirt off,” I say, my voice all business now. The vet in me has taken over. This is just a patient. A very large, very complicated, very human patient.

He gives a faint nod. I grab a pair of trauma shears from a drawer and make quick work of the expensive fabric, cutting away his shirt and the vest he’s wearing beneath it. My breath hitches. His entire torso is a roadmap of old scars. Faded white lines, angry puckered circles. This isn't the first time he's been shot. It’s not even the fifth, from the looks of it.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, the ringtone a cheerful pop song that sounds obscene in the tense silence of the room. The screen lights up with a picture of Mark, smiling his perfect, toothpaste-ad smile. My boyfriend.

I ignore it.

“This is going to hurt,” I say, grabbing sterile gauze and antiseptic solution. I have to clean the wound before I can even think about what’s next.

The man’s eyes flutter open as I press the first soaked pad to his skin. They are the color of dark coffee, intense and shockingly alert for someone who has lost so much blood. He watches me, his gaze unwavering, as I work. He doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, just clenches his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jump.

My phone buzzes again. Then a third time. Mark is not patient.

With a sigh, I pull off one bloody glove and answer, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey? That’s all I get?” Mark’s voice is slick with manufactured charm. “I’ve been calling, Clara. Started to think you’d finally gotten eaten by one of your mangy patients.”

I bite back a sharp retort. “Sorry. I was just finishing up. It’s been a long day.”

“Tell me about it. The Henderson deal is becoming a total headache. The guy is trying to nickel and dime me on the commission. Me! Can you believe the nerve?”

I murmur something noncommittal, my eyes fixed on the wound. It’s deep. The bullet is still in there, I can feel it with the tip of my forceps. I don’t have the equipment to do a proper extraction, not for a human. I can only clean it, pack it, and stitch the muscle and skin layers closed. It will have to be enough.

“Anyway,” Mark continues, oblivious. “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow? My boss is going to be there. I need you to be charming.”

“Of course,” I say, my voice tight.

“Good. And wear the red dress. The one I like. It makes you look… successful.”

I feel a familiar wave of resentment wash over me. It’s always about appearances with him. My struggling clinic is an embarrassment. My comfortable scrubs are an eyesore. My passion is a cute, but ultimately unprofitable, hobby.

“I’m really busy, Mark. I have to go,” I say, trying to keep the strain out of my voice.

“Still at the clinic? Jesus, Clara. It’s almost eleven. What are you even doing there? Counting your massive earnings for the day? What was it, fifty bucks for a hamster’s flu shot?” He laughs, a hollow, condescending sound that makes my teeth ache.

“Something like that,” I lie, my gaze flicking to the dark, dangerous man bleeding out on my table. “Just finishing up some paperwork.”

“Right. Well, hurry up. Don’t forget you need to pick up my dry cleaning in the morning before you go in. The ticket is on the counter. Love you.”

He hangs up before I can respond.

I stand there for a moment, the phone still pressed to my ear, the dial tone buzzing. I don’t love him. I don’t think I have for a long time. The thought is so clear, so sharp, it surprises me.

I toss the phone onto the counter and pull on a fresh glove. My hands are steady now. The anger at Mark has burned away the fear.

“Sorry about that,” I mutter, more to myself than to the man. “Let’s get this bullet out.”

His eyes are still on me, but the focus has softened. There’s something else in them now. Not just pain, but… something like curiosity. Assessment.

“What’s your name?” he rasps, his voice barely audible.

“Clara.”

“Trevor,” he says, the name a sigh. His eyes drift shut.

I work for the next hour in a state of hyper-focused calm. I find the bullet, lodged against a rib. A lucky break. A few inches to the left and it would have torn through a lung. Using a pair of hemostats and a frightening amount of force, I manage to pull it free. It clatters into the metal basin with a sharp ping.

As I stitch him closed, my movements sure and practiced, something heavy and metallic slips from the pocket of his ruined trousers and falls to the floor. I finish the last stitch and tie it off before bending to pick it up.

It’s a lighter. But it’s unlike any lighter I’ve ever seen. It’s made of solid, gleaming platinum, impossibly heavy in my hand. Engraved on its surface is a detailed crest: a snarling wolf’s head, intricate and beautiful.

I stare at it, then back at the unconscious man on my table. Trevor. A man with more scars than skin, a bullet in his side, and a lighter that probably costs more than my entire clinic.

Exhaustion hits me like a physical blow. I lean against the counter, my legs trembling. The adrenaline is gone, leaving behind a deep, bone-weary ache and the terrifying reality of what I’ve just done. I have a gangster, or a mobster, or something equally terrifying, lying unconscious in my animal clinic. I lied to my boyfriend, who I now realize I can’t stand. And I am entirely, completely alone.

I look at Trevor’s face, peaceful now in the harsh light. The hard lines of his mouth have softened. For a man surrounded by so much violence, there is a strange stillness about him. A quiet power that pulls me in even as it terrifies me.

My life was sinking slowly, a quiet, orderly failure. Now, I have the distinct feeling I just tied myself to a beautiful, dangerous anchor and kicked it into the abyss.