“You have placed yourself in a very difficult situation, Doctor. My associates want to kill you, to set an example to others who are slow to pay.” Dmitri Korsakov leans back in the chair and takes a puff of his Montecristo cigar. Rings of smoke emanate from his mouth, dissipating as they rise toward the ceiling.
Jerome Gorelick sits behind his desk, a white-knuckled grip on his chair. A small stream of sweat runs down the left side of his stout, bearded face.
“Dmitri, we have been doing business for many years. You know I am good for the money.”
Korsakov shakes his head, his heavily accented voice a mixture of disappointment and disgust. “You have lost control, Jerome, and seventy-eight thousand dollars is a great deal of money.” Gorelick winces as Korsakov grinds the tip of his cigar into the oak desk, leaving a burn mark in its wake. “I have no choice but to let my associates have their way.” He rises and turns to go.
Gorelick springs from his chair and stretches a hand out. “Wait! There must be something I can do to clear my debt?”
A sinister smile spreads across Dmitri’s face as he wags his forefinger. “There is one thing. But I am not sure you have the stomach for it.”
“What is it?” the doctor asks with trepidation.
Korsakov’s smile broadens as he waves Gorelick back to his seat and sits down himself. “There are those in my organization who grow concerned about Irina. Estranged from me, her husband dead, her career in ruins, they fear she has little to lose and may betray us. My associates seek a permanent solution to this problem.”
The blood drains from Gorelick’s face. “Your own sister, Dmitri?” Gorelick wrings his hands as he whispers, “What would you have me do?”
“Kill her.”
The rheumatologist winces, then averts his eyes and traces the edge of the desk with his fingers. A long moment passes before his eyes find Dmitri’s again. “And who better than you, Doctor? Nobody would suspect.”
Gorelick slumps in his chair.
“My sister is desperate. She will undertake whatever treatment you prescribe, and that is how you will kill her.” Korsakov waves his hand through the air. “Do this and your debt is forgiven.”
Staring at the floor, Gorelick hangs his head as Korsakov trudges to the door. He turns to the physician and shouts, “Look at me! Forty-eight hours to save yourself, Doctor—not one minute more.” The door slams behind him. Gorelick flinches, the color draining from his face as he grapples with the ultimate lose-lose scenario; violate his sacred pledge to “do not harm” or face the mobster’s deadly wrath?
Dmitri nods to the receptionist on his way out, stepping aside so a beautiful, Asian woman can enter before he exits the office.
The receptionist smiles warmly. “Oh, hello, Kiki. We’ve been expecting you. Here, come this way.”