He Brought His Pregnant Mistress to My Operating Table

A slot at my table was nearly impossible to get.

Wounded men were carried in from three territories away, smuggled through back roads for hours, just to have my hands and no one else's stitching them shut where no Fed report would ever be filed.

A last-minute change in the schedule meant I'd quietly traded my afternoon hours with another of the Family's surgeons for the noon block. By morning the men were already lined down the corridor of the back-room, the air thick with leather and old blood, and I hadn't even had time for a sip of water.