The Mafia's Captive Doctor

The first time he saw me, I was a girl standing in the rain.

The second time, I was a medical student holding a crime lord's life in my hands.

The third time, he dragged me from my clinic, bleeding out on a stretcher, and claimed me as his own.

"Who are you?" I asked, a captive in his glittering penthouse.

"I'm the man who's been watching you for nine years, milaya," Damian Volkov whispered.

He's the Bratva king, a monster in a bespoke suit, and his obsession with me is as deep and dangerous as the secrets I'm hiding.

He sees a surgeon. A prize.

He doesn't see the senator's daughter who faked her own death.

He doesn't know about the evidence I carry, or the hidden brother I'd die to protect.

Now, I'm his captive doctor, forced to heal his soldiers by day and fight his claim on my body by night.

But the closer he pulls me into his world of violence and power, the more I see a darkness in him that mirrors my own.

He thinks he's my captor.

He's about to find out I'm his damnation.

***

Chapter 1: The Angel of the Fringe

November 12, 2024 | 1:15 AM | The Fringe District, Las Vegas

The needle bit through skin, pulling torn flesh together like mending a ripped seam.

Ava Thorne didn't look up from her work.

The gang member on her makeshift operating table had stopped whimpering ten minutes ago, which meant the local anesthetic was finally doing its job.

"Keep it clean, Rico." Her voice cut through the humid air of the underground clinic. "Infection will kill you faster than whatever you were running from."

The sharp scent of antiseptic burned her nostrils, battling the smell of rust and alley decay that seeped through every crack in the concrete walls.

A single fluorescent bulb flickered overhead, casting stuttering shadows across her steady hands as she tied off the final suture.

Rico grunted his understanding, sliding crumpled bills across the metal table. Street currency. No questions asked, no names recorded.

Exactly how Ava preferred it.

She was peeling off her latex gloves when the sound reached her. Deep engine rumbles. Multiple vehicles.

Her hands stilled.

The engines cut simultaneously. Perfect synchronization.

Rico sat up straighter, eyes darting toward the reinforced door. "Doc? That ain't normal."

No. It wasn't.

Fringe rats arrived alone, bleeding and desperate. They stumbled through her door in panicked clusters at most.

This was something else entirely.

Heavy boots echoed in the alley outside. Measured steps. Coordinated movement.

Ava's pulse quickened as she counted at least four distinct footfall patterns. These weren't desperate street thugs seeking quick medical attention.

These were hunters.

The metal door exploded inward.

Six men in black tactical gear swept through the entrance, weapons drawn, eyes scanning every corner with ruthless efficiency.

Ava catalogued details automatically: bulletproof vests, military-grade weapons, synchronized entry.

These men killed for a living.

A lean man with pale, watchful eyes stepped forward. His gaze swept the room once before settling on her.

"Clear," he called softly.

His voice carried authority despite its quiet tone. The kind of man who never needed to raise his voice because people obeyed instinctively.

"Location secure," one of his men spoke into a radio, the words crisp and economical.

They weren't hunting. They were protecting someone.

Someone important enough to command this level of loyalty.

Rico had gone statue-still on the table, smart enough to recognize when he was outgunned. The bills in his hand trembled slightly.

"Get him out," the pale-eyed man said without looking away from Ava.

Two soldiers flanked Rico, escorting him toward a side exit with efficiency that spoke to extensive planning. They'd mapped every entrance and exit before entering.

The moment Rico disappeared, four men appeared in the doorway, carrying a stretcher.

Even unconscious and bleeding, the man on it drew every eye in the room. Expensive suit, now ruined with blood. Powerful build. Broad shoulders that suggested strength earned through violence, not genetics.

Dangerous, even in weakness.

Ava's medical training kicked in automatically. Three bullet wounds visible through the torn fabric. Clean entry points. Quality work.

Someone had wanted him dead badly enough to send skilled assassins.

"Pakhan is stable," the pale-eyed man reported quietly into his radio. "Marcus won't expect us here."

Russian. The organizational structure clicked into place. Bratva.

The word sent cold dread through her chest, but her training overrode fear.

"Get him on the table," she ordered, her voice cutting through their military discipline. "I need better light."

The pale-eyed man—clearly the lieutenant—studied her for a moment. Then he nodded.

"You heard her. Move."

They transferred the wounded man with careful efficiency. Up close, Ava could see the sharp angles of his face, the silver scar cutting through his left eyebrow like a signature of past violence.

His breathing was shallow but steady. Blood loss, but not fatal if treated quickly.

As she worked, fragments of conversation drifted past her focused concentration.

"Boss's orders were to find the best surgeon off the grid."

They'd researched her. This wasn't a desperate coincidence.

Her hands moved with steady certainty, cleaning wounds, assessing damage. Two bullets had passed through cleanly. The third required extraction.

Quality work. Both the assassination attempt and her surgery.

Grey eyes snapped open mid-procedure.

Alert. Calculating. Predatory.

They locked onto hers with startling intensity, and for a moment, Ava forgot to breathe. Even wounded and vulnerable, this man radiated quiet menace that made her skin prickle.

"You have the hands of a goddess."

His voice was rough with pain but controlled, each word deliberate. The Russian accent added dark elegance to the simple observation.

She didn't look away from her work, though she felt his stare like heat against her skin.

"And nerves of steel," he continued, studying her face. "You're wasted in this sewer."

His tone was appraising. Like being evaluated for purchase.

"Hold still," she murmured, extracting the final bullet with careful movements. "Unless you want to explain to your men how you bled out because you couldn't stop talking."

Something shifted in those grey depths. Amusement? Admiration?

His blood-slicked hand moved faster than pain should have allowed, grabbing her wrist with unmistakable ownership.

Not roughly. But with the certainty of possession.

"You belong to me now."

The words dropped into the silence like a judge's gavel, final and unappealable.

Ava met his stare without flinching. "I don't belong to anyone."

Behind her, she heard the distinct sound of safety catches clicking off weapons.

The message was crystal clear.

"Easy," he murmured to his men, grey eyes never leaving her face. "She's valuable. Handle her accordingly."

The pale-eyed lieutenant appeared at her shoulder, producing a cloth from his jacket. The sweet, chemical scent made her stomach drop.

Chloroform. Clean. Efficient.

"Wait—" she started, backing away from the table.

Six men blocked every exit. There was nowhere to run in the cramped space of her clinic.

Strong arms caught her as her knees buckled, the world blurring at the edges.

"Handle her like she's made of glass."

His voice followed her into the gathering darkness, each word a promise and a threat.

"She's mine now."

Consciousness slipped away, but those grey eyes burned in her memory.

Cold. Possessive. Utterly certain.

The last thing she saw was his hand reaching toward her face, fingers stained with his own blood, moving with surprising gentleness.

Then darkness claimed her, and Ava Thorne ceased to exist.

When she woke, she would be someone else entirely.

Someone who belonged to the man with the predator's smile and winter in his eyes.

Chapter 2: The Collector's Item

November 12, 2024 | 2:45 AM | Armored SUV en route to The Olympus Casino

Pain clawed through Damian's ribs with each breath.

The bullet wounds throbbed with each heartbeat, torn muscle and bone screaming for relief he wouldn't allow himself.

But his grey eyes remained fixed on the woman seated across from him, drawn by something stronger than agony.

Even unconscious, Dr. Ava Thorne maintained perfect posture against the SUV's black leather. Her spine straight, shoulders squared, surgeon's hands folded with precise symmetry in her lap.

Hands that had saved his life.

Hands that now belonged to him.

The vehicle's interior reeked of expensive leather and gun oil. Bulletproof glass muffled the distant hum of Vegas traffic, creating a cocoon of silence around them.

Mikhail's voice crackled through the encrypted comm system.

"Pakhan, Marcus's men are s