The sound of an alarm on Marcello's monitor cuts off whatever Luciano was about to say, and I rush over, turning the alarm off, while my eyes fly over the readouts. "It's okay. His blood pressure just spiked a little."
I open up the flow to his beta blocker slightly to allow more medicine to enter his body and watch as his numbers go down. It's all good, just like I said. His blood pressure spiked; that happens, especially with patients with a headwound as serious as his. But I can't stop my eyes from roaming his still form on the bed. His olive skin looks pale on the white bed linen; he's calling to me in a way no other patient ever has before. It's unsettling. I check the line connected to his hand to make sure the flow is good. The tips of my fingers brush against his flesh, and a shiver moves through me. His knuckles are bruised, as if he had been in a fight recently, sending another quiver through me, reminding me that his world and mine are not only a million miles apart, but that our moral compasses are polar opposite. And yet… I'm not sure if it's the hint of danger in the air around him that attracts me, or my nursing instincts. But the fact of the matter is that I've never touched a patient in an unprofessional manner like that before. I'm not even wearing gloves. Shit. What the hell is the matter with me?
The thought of quitting, like my mom suggested, enters my mind; it sure would be the sensible thing to do. But right now, all I'm feeling is a suicidal stubbornness rushing through me. I'll be damned if I let this asshole intimidate me. Part of me is aware that right now, I'm no longer looking down the horror movie basement stairs; I've already started my way down.
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud booming voice, echoing through the ICU wing and startling patients enough to set off several monitors, "How is he? How is my son?"
"Mr. Orsi." Luciano nearly jumps out of his shoes.
"Where are the fucking doctors?" The massive man who enters yells.
Slowly, in my mind, I take a few steps backward on those stairs, because this man is not a charismatic, unconscious man, who may or may not be in the mafia. This man is a cold-blooded killer, none other than Carlos Orsi himself. Even if I hadn't recognized him from his trial on TV, the family resemblance is undeniable: black hair, over six feet tall, olive skin, but that's where the similarities end. Where Marcello's cheeks are gaunt, his father's are rounded and puffed out. Jowls hang over a double chin, and at least a hundred and fifty extra pounds pad his frame, leaving him huffing.
"I'll get the doctor on shift," I say, trying to get by the massive man. I just want out of this room now. This man scares me more than Luciano.
Strong fingers grab my upper arm in an iron grip. "Who are you?"
"That's Violet, Marcello's nurse," Luciano introduces me. I could be wrong, but there seems to be a hard strain in his voice. When I look over, his jaws are clenched tightly.
"Excuse me," I say, trying to free my arm from the man's grip, sure I'll have marks on it tomorrow.
He turns me around, forcing me to face him. His blue eyes pierce mine. "Get him."
He shoves me forward, finally letting go of my arm. The urge to rub the spot where he held me is hard to resist, but my anger is spiking. "That was highly inappropriate."
"Get. The. Doctor. Or I'll show youhighly inappropriate, little miss bedpan jockey."
My face flushes in barely contained anger, but before I can say anything, Luciano chimes in, "Violet, please."
I take a deep breath, summoning my composure and work ethic, before I nod and rush out of the room. I'm not being paid enough for this shit.
I page Doctor Waspo, who is thankfully on call today. He has been Marcello's doctor since he was brought in. He is also one of the best brain surgeons in the country.
From inside Marcello's room, the sound of raised voices drifts out. One of the other ICU nurses pokes her head out of her room and gives me a sharp look. Right. That's my room. I need to get control of this.
"… took you long enough," Luciano finishes his sentence when I enter.
"You little shit, can't tell me?—"
"Excuse me," I say sharply, interrupting whatever Mr. Orsi was about to say. I close the sliding glass door, hoping it will drown out the noise. "I'm really sorry your son has been injured, and I understand your concern, but this is the ICU wing. If you can't quiet down, I will be forced to ask you to leave."
For good measure, I fold my arms across my chest.
Mr. Orsi swings around surprisingly swiftly for a man of his size. His eyes take me in from head to toe. "Do you have any idea who you are talking to?"
"A father aggrieved over his son's condition," I state, much braver than I feel. But dammit, I'm not letting this pompous ass intimidate me—or at least I'll be damned if I show it.
"Why hasn't this wing been emptied?" Orsi's scorn turns on Luciano, dismissing me like a pesky gnat.
"The patients here are in critical condition; there was no room any?—"
"Do I look like I give a shit?" Orsi yells.
"Sir, please. I will call security if—" I can't finish my sentence because the man throws his head back and laughs. He laughs so hard that tears run down his fat cheeks.
"Priceless," he huffs after a moment. Then his features turn stern again. "How about I have your throat slit, or would you rather be trafficked?"
"Mr. Orsi," Luciano interjects sharply.
