Chapter 7 7

Dawn moved with efficient brutality. She used a pair of shears from the sewing kit to cut the expensive Italian wool of his suit. Jacket, shirt, trousers. She stripped him down to his boxers.

His body was a map of violence. Old scars mixed with the fresh bruising from the crash. He was built like a fighter, not a CEO.

"O'Malley, call Dr. Evans," Dawn said without looking up. "Tell him it's a private matter. Double his fee. And tell him to bring a surgical kit, not just a stethoscope."

While they waited, Dawn cleaned the wounds. She poured alcohol over the gash on his leg. Jennings arched his back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat, but he didn't pull away.

"Breathe," she said.

"I am... breathing," he gritted out.

Dr. Evans arrived twenty minutes later. He was a man who knew which side of his bread was buttered. He took one look at Jennings, then at Dawn, and opened his bag.

"Gunshot?" Evans asked, eyeing a puncture wound on Jennings's side.

"Shrapnel," Dawn said. "From the crash."

"It looks like-"

"It's shrapnel," Dawn interrupted. She pulled a piece of paper from the desk. It was a pre-written non-disclosure agreement she'd had in her clutch for months. "Sign this before you start."

Evans squinted at it. "An NDA? Dawn, I've been your family doctor for-"

"Sign it," she said. "And I'll have Mr. Stafford's family office authorize a transfer of fifty thousand dollars to your practice tomorrow morning."

Evans blinked. Then he signed.

The surgery was makeshift but effective. Dawn assisted. She handed him instruments before he even asked for them. She tied sutures with one hand. She anticipated the bleeders.

Evans paused, holding a hemostat. He looked at her over his glasses. "I heard they revoked your license. I never believed you were capable of what they accused you of, but I didn't think you'd ever touch a scalpel again. Where did you learn to do a vertical mattress suture like that?"

"I read a lot," Dawn said flatly. "Focus, Doctor."

They worked for two hours. They set the leg. They closed the wounds. They stabilized him.

When Evans finally packed up, he looked shaken. "He needs a hospital, Dawn. If infection sets in..."

"He has me," Dawn said. "Goodbye, Doctor."

O'Malley escorted the doctor out.

The room was quiet again. The storm outside had settled into a steady drone.

Jennings was awake. He shouldn't be. He had refused general anesthesia, opting only for a local block. He wanted to be conscious. He didn't trust them.

"Water," he croaked.

Dawn held a glass to his lips. He drank greedily.

"You paid him fifty grand," Jennings said. His voice was stronger now. "You don't have fifty grand. Your father cut off your trust fund six months ago."

He knew her finances. Of course he did.

"I'll put it on your tab," she said, setting the glass down.

He looked at her. The suspicion in his eyes was warring with something else. Curiosity.

"What do you want?" he asked. "You saved me. You hid me. You bribed a doctor. You're not doing this out of the goodness of your heart. No one does."

Dawn sat in the velvet armchair by the bed. She was exhausted. Her adrenaline was crashing.

"I want you alive," she said.

"Why?"

"Because," she leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his. "Dead men can't sign checks. And they certainly can't destroy my enemies."

Jennings stared at her. For the first time, he didn't look at her like a socialite. He looked at her like a peer.

"Go to sleep, Jennings," she said. "The wolves will still be there in the morning."