Page 23 of Duty Devoted
Mateo stared at me like no one had ever said no to him before. Maybe no one had. “I insist.”
I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sure you understand how important my job is to me. I took an oath to help people in need, and Carlos is definitely in need. I couldn’t possibly just leave him to go to a dinner party. It would be unethical.”
Mateo looked like he was about to argue further, but a door opened on one of the SUVs and everything around us fell completely silent.
“Fuck,” Logan murmured under his breath.
Diego Silva, Mateo’s father, stepped out and began strolling toward us, taking in everything around him with a vague interest. The resemblance between the two men hit hard. Same sharp cheekbones. Same dark, unreadable eyes. The same quiet arrogance that filled the space around them like smoke.
Mateo wore his charm like a tailored suit—flashy, polished, meant to dazzle.
But Diego? He didn’t need charm. Power clung to him like a second skin, cold and absolute.
“What is the delay?” he asked, brushing a nonexistent speck from his beige linen jacket, his disdain palpable.
“Father, I can handle this. I just need a few more moments?—”
Diego turned on his son, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. “We stop forthis? One simple task—seconds, at most—and you still manage to fail. You’re even more useless than I gave you credit for.”
Mateo’s face burned with humiliation, but he kept his mouth shut.
Then Diego shifted his gaze to me. Cold. Calculating. “You turned down my son’s invitation? You think you’rebetterthan him?”
Logan didn’t move. Not exactly.
But I saw it—the subtle shift of his hand drifting toward his waist. Toward his weapon. A silent promise waiting to be unleashed.
“No, sir,” I said evenly. “I simply explained that I can’t leave my patient. Not tonight. I am needed here.”
Diego glanced toward Carlos’s house, then gestured to two of his men. “Let me see thispatient. Bring him out.”
No doubt they were going to ask Carlos if he minded if I didn’t care for him tonight. I already knew what his answer would be. There was no way Carlos would stand up against Diego Silva. “Mr. Silva, that’s not necessary. He’s not well enough to?—”
But the men were already moving. I heard Carlos cry out as they ripped him from bed, aggravating his healing wound. They dragged him outside and deposited him roughly in the dirt in front of Diego.
Carlos was pale and disoriented, clutching his side. Fresh blood spread across his shirt—his wound torn open again from the rough handling.
Diego crouched down beside Carlos with the casual interest of someone examining livestock. “Dr. Valentino tells us your condition is quite serious.”
“I… Yes, señor,” Carlos stammered, his eyes darting between Mateo and me. “The doctora has been very kind…”
“She also tells us she cannot attend my son’s dinner party because of your injury. That you need her here.”
Carlos blanched. “No, señor. I—I don’t want that. My wound is not that serious.”
I stepped forward. “You see how badly he’s bleeding. This is not something I can ignore. It would be unethical of me.”
Diego stood and gave a thoughtful nod. “That is understandable.”
I exhaled, thinking the worst had passed. Maybe not forever—but at least I wouldn’t be forced into some morally dubious dinner party tonight.
Then Diego pulled a gun from beneath his suit jacket.
Time fractured.
One second, Carlos was kneeling there in the dirt—sweating, silent, alive. The next, a gunshot split the humid air. His body snapped back, then collapsed in a graceless heap.
Blood darkened the dirt in a slow, spreading halo. Silva’s men shifted, careful not to let it touch their boots.
