The Capo's Surgeon

and the top underground sur

d in to perform an off-the-bo

g room glass, I saw my m

fists against the door, screaming in despe

I will marry you,

letely ignored my existence, kissing her knuck

n I returned to our cold penthouse,

es designed to cause severe fetal deform

me and swore a blood oath to protect me, ha

is four-year affair, praising the mistre

band I loved be the very monster plot

ffection for the Capo

n, drafted ironclad annulment papers,

-

pte

ena

buried deep inside another woman's body. I am performing an off-the-books caes

but for the mistress whose bl

on my own latex gloves, more potent than the patient's blood, and understand that the man who

s thick with the cloying vapor of i

my lips, does little to conceal

a low, guttural moan, her head

she is a VIP patient brought in th

o, only last month, crushed the life from three cartel bosses with his bare hands, all, he claimed, to secure a f

he impact. His forehead is pressed hard against the cold pane, a circle of condensation blooming f

I will marry you,

work. The scalpel in my grip feels foreign, its fam

losing the fe

he table. Her voice is a blade, cutting through my paralysis, h

inging my eyes and f

ugh the fi

into the world. His cry is a raw,

He is a captive audience on the other side of the window as I begin the slow, methodical work of suturing the layers of his mistress's abdomen. I smell his cologne-the familiar notes of cedar and tobacco-even through the door seals, a scent that makes the muscles in my own neck tighten. With each pass of

room, the door swinging back to

cept him, their hands raised to

look at the

the surgeon who ju

earing a trail through the blood on the floor tiles. He does not kn

e in her damp hair, his shoulders shu

You gave me a son.

ved hands held up in the air, the blood

om his familiar face, carving out the lines

ve hours ago at the Family's Christmas Eve din

art of the fiercely

rs, intercepted every whiskey toast, and told t

of his mistress, a gesture of such quiet, re

eel their gazes, not on me, but on the tableau of th

ack of my neck, the sterile air sudd

on the birth of a

gical mask, a flat, toneless thing th

ven turn his head

hand, pressing his lips to

overy ward. The rhythmic squeak of the wheels recedes down the corrid

tiff, bloody gloves from my hands, and

in and pulls dow

ed with deep concern

low. "There's no color left

calculation in his eyes before the requisite smile was fixed in place. His suggestion tha

own surgical clogs make a sticky, slapping sound on the corridor tiles, and

r child, his gaze fixed on the infant's face with an intensity he once reserved

e raw Chicago winter, the first sharp sting of

assenger seat of S

the heavy lock bolts slide into pl

to, S

ow, my own hand coming to rest, not on my stomach, b

discreet te