Page 7 of Duty Devoted
“I’m not athingto be collected.” I shook my head, annoyed at the flicker of panic her words triggered. “And this isn’t about me. It’s about controlling the clinic, establishing dominance.”
But even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t true. I’d seen the truth… The possessive gleam when I’d refused to take his hand. The amusement when I’d stepped away from his touch.
Sophia didn’t look convinced. “Just…be careful. The Silvas own everything they touch in Corazón.”
“Not this clinic. And not me.” I moved toward our next patient, desperate to focus on something normal and safe. “We have work to do.”
The rest of the afternoon was blessedly normal, doing house calls in the village as well as treating the few who came to the clinic itself.
That evening, my phone chimed with a text from my father:
Lauren, please come home. We can get you a position at Northwestern or Rush. Somewhere safe. This madness has to stop. Your mother is sick with worry.
My parents texted me every day. I loved them and tried to reassure them I was okay as much as possible without encouraging their overbearing behavior.
They had never understood why I’d chosen this path instead of a prestigious position at Chicago Memorial, where my family name carried weight. They viewed my work with Compass Medical Outreach as a dangerous obsession—something they needed to rescue me from and help me see the light.
Now, Dad’s desperation was palpable, even through the phone screen.
We love you. Just come home where you belong.
For the first time, I considered responding differently. But what would I say?A cartel leader’s son might be fixated on me?It sounded paranoid, even to my own ears. Not to mention, would not do anything but send my dad’s blood pressure through the roof.
I closed the message without responding. Our satellite providing cell service was out anyway, which happened regularly.
I couldn’t leave my patients. Not now, not when they needed me most. And I certainly wouldn’t be frightened away by Mateo Silva, no matter how powerful his family was or how desperately my parents wanted me home.
But as I walked to my small room behind the clinic that night, I found myself checking the locks twice—not that they would do much good. And when I finally fell into an uneasy sleep, Mateo’s voice and too-slick appearance followed me.
Next time I saw Mateo Silva—and I had no doubt there would be a next time—I would make it abundantly clear that I wasn’t interested in whatever sick game he was playing. I would establish boundaries and enforce them.
Even as I told myself that, part of me wondered if it was already too late.
Chapter 3
Logan Kane
The morning lightfiltered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Citadel Solutions’ conference room in Denver, casting long shadows across the polished table. I sat at the far end, back to the wall—old habits—the familiar weight of my sidearm pressed against my ribs, a constant reminder of the world we operated in.
Ethan Cross—my boss and the closest thing I had to a best friend—adjusted his laptop camera until I had a full view of the Colorado wilderness behind him. He was reporting in from his ranch, where he now spent his days playing cowboy and being disgustingly in love with Mel Rivers. Yeah,thatMel—the pop star’s sister we’d been hired to protect last year.
I missed doing actual missions with him—the kind that involved adrenaline and danger, and less talk about feelings and braiding each other’s hair.
But now? Ethan was basically a rom-com montage waiting to happen. The man used to carry a Glock like it was part ofhis damn skeleton. Now, he probably carried herbal tea and relationship advice in his go-bag.
Still, he was happy. I was happyforhim. Mostly.
“Connection’s coming through now,” Jace Monroe called from his position at the tech station, fingers dancing across multiple keyboards, where the man was most comfortable. Banks of monitors displayed everything from weather patterns over Central America to real-time news feeds from the region.
The screens flickered to life for the video call, revealing what had to be one of Chicago’s most expensive penthouses. Crystal chandeliers, original artwork, furniture that probably cost more than most people’s cars. The kind of wealth that bought influence, power, and the illusion of safety.
Dr. Richard Valentino dominated the frame, his silver hair perfectly styled despite the early hour. Even through the video connection, tension radiated from every line of his body. He stood behind an ornate chair where his wife sat, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had gone white.
A second screen populated into our monitor. A thin man in his fifties with wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of rumpled shirt that suggested he’d dressed quickly. He looked uncomfortable on camera, adjusting his glasses nervously as he studied what appeared to be a tablet in his lap. His desk was covered with papers.
“Mr. Cross, thank you for putting together this intelligence assessment so quickly.” Richard’s voice carried the authority of a man accustomed to being heard, but underneath lurked something I recognized—barely controlled panic. “Please tell me the situation isn’t as bad as we fear.”
Catherine Valentino looked up at her husband, who had started to pace, already wiping tears from her eyes. She was elegant in the way only old money could achieve, but grief had carved harsh lines around her eyes. “We’ve been trying to getaccurate information for weeks, but the news reports are so contradictory.”
