Chapter 4 - The Hands of a Surgeon
"Sully!" Elena shouted, not looking up as her fingers worked frantically in the dog’s blood. "In my duffel bag under the sink in the back! The black leather pouch! BRING IT NOW!"
Sully didn't ask questions. He sprinted to the back room and returned five seconds later, slamming a worn, heavy leather roll onto the floor beside her.
Elena unrolled it with one swift motion.
Inside were surgical tools—stainless steel hemostats, curved needles, military-grade suture wire, scalpels, and blood-clotting celox powder. It wasn't the kit of a bartender. It was the mobile surgical kit of a battle-tested trauma specialist.
Lena gasped from behind the bar. "Elena... what is that?"
Elena ignored her. "Dante. Hold his front legs. Keep his neck straight. Do not let him shift."
Dante instantly dropped back to his knees, wrapping his strong hands around Brutus's forelegs, pinning the massive dog gently but firmly to the floor. "I’m here. I’ve got him."
"Lighting," Elena demanded.
Dante’s lieutenant quickly whipped out his smartphone, turning on the high-intensity flashlight and holding it steady over the dog’s chest.
Elena picked up a pair of curved hemostats. Her hands, which had trembled earlier while wiping down glasses, were now dead still. The world around her—the gunsmoke, the mobsters, the broken glass—faded into complete silence. There was only the anatomy beneath her hands.
She slid her fingers into the entry wound, feeling through muscle tissue until her clamps located the spurting vessel.
CLICK.
The bleeding stopped instantly as she clamped the artery shut.
Brutus let out a long, shuddering breath, his chest rising more evenly.
"Suture," Elena muttered to herself, threading curved wire through the needle with practiced, terrifying speed. She began closing the deep muscular tear with tight, precise stitches that looked like medical artwork.
Dante watched her hands. He had seen combat surgeons in military hospitals overseas. He had seen high-priced private doctors work on gunshot victims in basement safehouses. None of them moved with the brutal, efficient grace of the quiet girl who had spent the last six months serving him draft beers.
"You're not a waitress," Dante whispered, his voice low, intense, and close to her ear.
Elena didn't look up. "Hold him still."
She finished the final layer of sutures, applied a heavy dusting of clotting powder, and wrapped the dog’s torso tightly in sterile gauze. She leaned down, pressing her ear against Brutus's ribs, listening intently to his breathing.
Ten seconds passed.
Elena sat back on her heels, wiping sweat from her forehead with her forearm, leaving a streak of dog’s blood across her temple.
"He's stable," she said softly. "The bleeding is stopped. Keep him warm, don't let him walk for three days, and give him amoxicillin twice a day to prevent infection."
Brutus opened his dark eyes weakly, let out a soft whine, and nudged his wet nose against Elena’s blood-soaked palm.
May you like
Dante stared at his dog, then slowly raised his head to look at Elena. The shock in his eyes was slowly giving way to something far more dangerous: deep, overwhelming curiosity.
"Who the hell are you?" Dante asked.
