Page 5 of Duty Devoted
Considering we had zero guns, that wasn’t very hard.
The armed men parted as a figure emerged from the middle SUV. Even without the protective circle of gunmen, he would have commanded attention. He wore an impeccably tailored white linen shirt and jacket, despite the heat and humidity. His movements were languid yet purposeful as he surveyed the clinic, hands casually resting in the pockets of his expensive slacks.
When his gaze fell on me, I felt an involuntary chill that had nothing to do with fear of his weapons. There was something calculating in the way he looked at me—not the clinical assessment of a businessman or the dismissive glance of someone used to power. This was personal. And not in a good way.
He was handsome in a slick and suave way. Classical features, perfectly styled dark hair, expensive clothes that fit like they were made for him. But something slimy lurked underneaththe surface polish. Something that made my hair stand on end, even as I forced myself to maintain professional composure.
“You must be the American doctor,” he said in flawless English, his accent adding a musical quality to the words. His smile revealed perfect white teeth, but it never reached his eyes, those amber eyes that seemed to be cataloging every detail of my appearance. “I’ve heard about your…dedicated service to our community.”
The way he said “dedicated service” made it sound obscene. I kept my expression neutral, though my heart hammered against my ribs. “I’m Dr. Valentino. These men need medical attention?”
“Such efficiency. I admire that. And that hair… I can see why they call you angel.” He approached, extending his hand with the confidence of someone who expected immediate compliance. “Mateo Silva. These men work for me and my father. They encountered some…trouble in a nearby village.”
Silva. The name hit me like a physical blow. Diego Silva controlled everything within a hundred-mile radius—drugs, weapons, local politics. His cartel’s fingerprints were on every aspect of life in this region.
And this was his son, standing before me like royalty expecting obeisance. The predatory gleam in his eyes made my skin feel too tight.
I ignored his outstretched hand, fighting the urge to step backward. “Bring the wounded inside. Anyone who isn’t injured stays out here.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face before morphing into something that might have been amusement—or irritation. I couldn’t tell which was worse. “As you wish, Doctor.”
I turned and walked back inside, feeling his eyes on me like a physical touch. I couldn’t stop the feeling that I’d just made a tactical error…made myself more interesting to Mateo Silva by not cowing to him like everyone else.
The center of this man’s attention was a very dangerous place to be.
“Dr. Yang, pressure dressing.”I extended my hand without looking up from the gaping machete wound on my patient’s forearm.
Sophia placed the dressing in my palm. We worked in practiced synchrony, having treated similar wounds too many times before. Defensive injuries from machete attacks were depressingly common in our clinic. Usually, the victims were farmers or small business owners who’d somehow crossed the cartels.
But I didn’t normally do this sort of work with the cartel leader himself watching from the doorway. Mateo Silva had followed me in after we’d divided the patients between our two treatment areas.
“How’s it going in the other room?”
“Blunt force trauma to the face and ribs,” Sophia reported. “Concussion. Three in total. Drs. Martinez and Williams have it covered.”
I’d seen enough cartel violence to recognize the pattern. These weren’t the injuries of men who had encountered “resistance.” These were the wounds of aggressors who had met unexpected defense. The question was: what village had been unlucky enough to fight back?
“In what village did this happen?” I asked the man whose arm I was stitching. It wouldn’t have been the village just a few hundred meters from our clinic, or I would’ve already heard about it.
The man flinched, eyes darting to the doorway where Mateo leaned against the frame, watching us work with detached interest. Even across the room, his presence felt suffocating. Like a spider watching flies struggle in its web.
“Doctor, these men are not authorized to speak to you,” Mateo said smoothly, his tone conversational but carrying an unmistakable threat. “My men were simply delivering a message to the villagers on behalf of my father.”
I tied off the suture with perhaps more force than necessary, trying to ignore how his voice made my skin crawl. “Messages don’t usually require machetes and firearms.”
Mateo pushed off from the doorframe and approached, his movements reminiscent of a predator—unhurried because escape was impossible. Everything about him radiated controlled violence wrapped in expensive packaging.
“Some people need more…persuasive communication,” he said, running a finger along the edge of the metal examination table. The casual gesture felt purposely intimate, like he was testing boundaries. “Especially when they forget who protects them.”
I finished bandaging the wound before looking up at Mateo, fighting every instinct that told me to avoid eye contact. His amber eyes held mine with an intensity that made my stomach turn. There was something possessive in his gaze, as if he were already imagining owning me.
“We treat everyone here, Mr. Silva. That’s our job. But I won’t pretend I don’t know what these injuries mean.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, the only indication that my directness had surprised him. “Careful, Doctor. Curiosity can be dangerous in Corazón.”
“So can intimidation.” Ignoring the small sound of distress that came from Sophia. I peeled off my gloves with a sharp snap, using the motion to step away from him. Even a few extra inchesof distance felt like a small victory. “Your men will recover. The sutures need to stay clean and dry. They should go to a medical professional in a week to have them removed.” Just not here.
He studied me with new interest, and I had the horrible sensation that I’d just made myself more appealing rather than less. Like my defiance was exactly what he’d been hoping for.
