Page 513 of Rosetti Family New York
I wake strapped to a surgical table, and for three seconds I think I'm back in Afghanistan.
Medical restraints cut into my wrists where rope burns left permanent scars. Industrial disinfectant mixed with rust and old blood fills my nostrils. The metal beneath me carries that specific cold that seeps through skin and settles in bones.
The abandoned medical facility stretches around me. Rusted equipment. Broken monitors with screens like dead eyes. Surgical lights flickering between too bright and complete darkness, creating a strobe effect that makes reality unstable.
Lucia stands over me wearing blood-stained scrubs—old blood, brown at the edges, layered. She adjusts the restraints with practiced efficiency.
"Welcome to your second tour of duty, Doctor." She runs a finger along surgical instruments on a tray—scalpels, forceps, bone saws. All clean, sharp, waiting. "I've prepared something special."
My wrists burn as I test the restraints. Two exits, both with shadows suggesting guards. Medical equipment repurposed. The setup identical to that concrete room in Afghanistan.
One thought anchors me: Carmela needs me to survive this.
Lucia wheels in mannequins dressed as wounded soldiers, positioned on makeshift gurneys around my table. Fake blood pooling in realistic patterns, limbs bent at angles suggesting compound fractures, faces turned toward me. She's even added name tags.
"Let's see if you can save them this time." She pulls out a knife—not medical, something meant for violence. "I ask questions about the Rosetti family. You answer, patients live."
She approaches the first mannequin. "Tell me about the Rosetti family's Chicago business interests. Routes, contacts, which cops they own."
The blade slashes plastic. Red corn syrup splashes across the mannequin's throat, dripping onto the floor. One drop every 0.8seconds. My hands twitch against restraints, muscle memory reaching for gauze that isn't there.
Private Sanchez's face flashes—nineteen years old, gap-toothed smile fading as blood loss took him while my chained hands couldn't reach the clamps.
Then Sanchez blurs into dark curls catching morning light through my bedroom window. The scent of basil from terra cotta pots she lined on my windowsill. Her off-key humming of "Brown Eyed Girl" while delicate fingers pinched yellow leaves. Her head on my chest as she slept, trusting me completely.
"Information about their suppliers," Lucia demands, moving to the second mannequin. "Family secrets. Financial records."
I close my eyes. Behind my lids, Carmela's face appears. The way she fit against me. The trust in her eyes when she let me bind her.
Mine. She chose to be mine, and I threw her away.
"Shame you couldn't save him," Lucia whispers, leaning close. Expensive perfume trying to mask old blood. She tightens the restraints until my wrists burn fresh fire on old scars.
Carmela's laugh fills my mind—that bright sound that made my apartment's walls seem less like a fortress.
"Tell me about their financial networks." Lucia thrusts her knife into another mannequin, stuffing spilling out in red clumps."Offshore accounts, money laundering. Give me something useful or I start working on you directly."
Carmela's eyes in those moments of surrender—pupils dilating as she gave me control. She saw the broken soldier but chose the man instead.
"No."
Lucia slams the scalpel down, the clatter echoing. She reaches for pliers, rusty hinges squeaking as she tests them near my face. Something in my expression makes her pause.
"You're being foolish." She paces around the table. "She's just a spoiled brat playing at rebellion. She'll forget you the moment daddy introduces her to someone appropriate. Someone whole. Someone who doesn't wake up screaming."
Wrong. Carmela didn't choose easy. She chose me. Saw worth where everyone else saw wreckage.
"You can hurt me all you want. I'm not telling you anything."
Lucia's control snaps. She turns the knife on me—shallow cuts for maximum pain, minimal blood loss. Demands I explain how to suture each wound before attempting it herself with clumsy stitches that pull and tear.
Time blurs. She stages elaborate scenarios—IVs of saline and adrenaline to keep me conscious, fake emergencies requiring triage decisions, casualties cycling through at breakneck pace. Charts shoved in my face. Every hesitation punished with icewater, electric shocks, games that would break someone who hadn't already been shattered and rebuilt.
New grotesque tableaus appear: mannequins arranged to mirror real memories, fake monitors wailing familiar alarms, mannequins flayed open to reveal hollow insides.
But I've already been broken. Already been rebuilt. This time, I have something I didn't have in Afghanistan.
The edges of reality blur like watercolors in rain. I cling to one constant: Carmela's voice saying my name. Her hand in mine. The way she looked at me like I was worth saving.
