A wounded mafia boss collapsed at my rural clinic after midnight,

I didn't hesitate. I sprinted to the back room, grabbed my heavy-duty flashlights, and secured the heavy iron security shutters over the front windows. Thor stayed glued to my heels, his ears flattened back, emitting a low, continuous warning growl.

Thud.

A heavy impact rattled the rear service door.

"Claire!" a voice called out from the darkness outside—not the thugs who had threatened me earlier, but a voice I recognized instantly.

Dante.

I unlocked the back door and pulled it open just enough to let him slip inside before slamming it shut and throwing the deadbolt.

Dante looked exhausted. His face was drenched in sweat, his breathing ragged, and the new bandages on his shoulder were already turning pink with fresh blood from exertion. He was holding a heavy submachine gun with a tactical suppressor—a weapon that belonged entirely in a war zone, not in a peaceful Oregon forest.

"Why did you come back?" I hissed, grabbing his good arm to steady him. "They were just here! They're looking for you, and now they know I helped you!"

"I saw their vehicles on the highway," Dante said, his voice hard as iron, though his body was visibly swaying from blood loss. "They pulled back because they realized my scouts were watching the perimeter. But they're regrouping for a night assault. I couldn't leave you here to take the fall for my war."

"Your war?" I shot back angrily, though my hands were already reaching for my medical kit. "You walked onto my porch bleeding to death, and now my clinic is a target for an execution squad! Sit down before you pass out!"

Dante let me guide him to the examination chair. As I cut away the ruined bandages for the second time in twenty-four hours, I noticed a sophisticated encrypted satellite communicator strapped to his forearm, flashing a steady amber light.

"Who are your 'scouts'?" I asked, shining a penlight over his torn shoulder tissue. "You have people here?"

"Remnants of my security detail," Dante replied, gritting his teeth as I applied antiseptic. "Men who survived the ambush in Chicago. They're securing the perimeter ridge, but we only have a small window before Marco’s hit squad makes their move."

"Marco," I repeated the name. "The man who betrayed you."

"The rat who thinks he can inherit my empire by spilling family blood," Dante corrected coldly. "And he's arrogant enough to think he can kill an innocent civilian to cover his tracks."

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the front of the clinic.