Just A Subordinate：The Don's Regretful Obsession

In my last life, I was naive enough to think I belonged here. Belonged to him.

That fantasy died in a firefight with a rival family, when I shoved him out of the way of a collapsing steel beam and it crushed both my hands.

Those hands had been my life.

They could pluck a bullet from beside a beating heart, perfectly suture a torn artery.

They were my pride as a surgeon.

And for Evan, they were ruined.

I lay in a hospital bed, staring at my plastered hands. Evan held my wrist, a rare flicker of guilt in his eyes.

“I’ll take care of you, Rachel,” he promised.

I believed him.

I thought it was the recognition I’d earned, paid for with a pair of useless hands.

But in the end, on the night our family was cornered and had to evacuate, I became the bait left behind.

I’ll never forget it.

In the chaos, he never looked back at me. He just held a trembling Sofia close, shielding her as they boarded the last helicopter.

Over the roar of the rotors, I heard him murmur to her, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

Then the bullets tore me to pieces.

Ping.

A text alert pulled me from the bloody memory.

It was a picture message from an unknown number.

I opened it. In the photo, a hand wearing Evan’s family signet ring was holding a cup of coffee.

And in the background, a woman in an oversized white men’s dress shirt was smiling in the morning light of a kitchen.

It was Sofia.

A second message followed.

Evan says I’m the only one who can touch his things. His ring, his shirt, his everything.

I laughed.

Laughed at how pathetic, how utterly ridiculous I’d been.

Once, after an emergency surgery, my clothes were soaked in blood. I had no choice but to borrow one of his shirts.

The next morning, the look of undisguised disgust on his face was burned into my memory.

He threw the expensive, custom-made shirt into the trash right in front of me.

“Don’t touch my things, Rachel,” he’d said, his voice ice. “Remember your place.”

My place. The dirty little secret, the on-call cleaner. How could I ever be worthy of touching anything that belonged to the great Blackthorn family?

I deleted the photo and the message, then blocked the number.

The second I put my phone down, it buzzed violently.

The name flashing on the screen was one I knew by heart—Evan Blackthorn.

I ignored it.

He called again. And a third time. I finally answered.

“Get your medical kit to Sofia’s place. Now.” Evan’s voice was cold, a command that left no room for argument.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone.

“Why?”

“She cut her finger slicing fruit.” He said it like it was the most important event in the world. “It’s bleeding a lot.”

She nicked her finger?

I almost laughed out loud.

The Don of a major crime family was ordering his chief surgeon to make a house call because his brother’s widow nicked her finger?

“Evan, I’m a trauma surgeon, not a nanny for every minor scrape.”

“This isn’t a request, Rachel,” his voice dropped, laced with warning. “It’s an order from your Don. Sofia is an asset to be protected.”

Always the family, always the Don. He always had the perfect excuse.

“I understand,” I said.

“Be there in thirty minutes.” He hung up.

I listened to the dial tone, taking a deep breath.

Then, I scrolled through my contacts, found a number, and dialed.

“Dr. Vitti?” The man on the other end was Evan’s personal family physician, an old man named Peterson.

“Dr. Peterson, Mr. Blackthorn has ordered me to tend to Mrs. Rossi’s wound, but I have a more urgent patient. Could you please cover for me? The address is…”

I hung up, feeling a wave of relief I hadn’t felt in years.

An hour later, a text came through from Evan.

It was seething with rage.

Why is Peterson here? Rachel, are you defying my order?

A few seconds later, a second message.

You’re jealous, aren’t you? Because I went to Sofia last night?

His tone was smug, mocking, as if he’d figured out my “little game.”

I slowly typed out a reply and hit send.

As you said, Mr. Blackthorn. I am your subordinate, nothing more.