He shook his head. “You know, Delgado, your problem is you think this job is just about kicking down doors and putting out fires. It’s not. It’s about people. It’s about relationships. And some of us are better at that than others.”
I just stared at him, my silence a more potent weapon than any shouted retort.
“You can be the best tactical officer in this whole department,” he continued, a cruel smile touching his lips. “But it doesn’t mean a damn thing if the guys upstairs don’tlikeyou. And they like me. They play golf with me. Their wives have lunch with my wife. And when that Captain’s list comes out, who do you really think they’re going to choose? The girlwho’s always making waves and filing complaints, or the guy who knows how to play the game?”
It was all out in the open now. The ugly, unspoken truth of the department. It wasn’t about merit. It was about politics.
“This isn’t about making waves, Santoro,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “This is about my firefighters going home to their families at the end of their shift. Something you clearly don’t give a damn about.”
He laughed, a short, ugly sound. “Don’t be so dramatic. You’re not the first woman to try and climb the ladder in this department, and you won’t be the last. But you all make the same mistake. You think being better at the job is enough.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s not. It never has been.”
He straightened up, his professional mask sliding back into place. “Good luck on the exam, Lieutenant,” he said, the title dripping with condescension. “You’re gonna need it.”
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone in the office with the taste of bile in my mouth and the absolute certainty that Mark Santoro had just declared war.
I sat there for a long moment, staring at the computer screen without seeing it. The equipment transfer paperwork had been a lie, just like I'd suspected. He'd come here to deliver a message, to make sure I understood exactly where I stood in his political calculation.
The message was clear: play by his rules, or watch my career get destroyed by "concerns" and "questions" that would somehow always trace back to my "poor judgment" and "emotional instability."
My phone buzzed with a text:
Jimmy
Hope your paperwork isn't too boring. Missing you already.
I stared at the message for a long moment, Santoro's wordsechoing in my head.The company you keep... the relationships you form. Everything reflects on your professional judgment.
Even Jimmy wasn't safe from this bastard's political games.
I typed back:
Just finishing up. Can't wait to see you tonight.
But as I packed up my things and headed for my truck, I couldn't shake the feeling that Santoro's visit was just the opening move in a much larger game. A game where the rules were rigged, the referees were bought, and people like me were expected to just accept it.
The hell with that.
If Mark Santoro wanted a war, he'd get one. But he'd learn that underestimating Isabel Delgado was the first and last mistake he'd make.
chapter
twenty-four
The Metro General Legal Affairsoffice was located in the administrative wing of the hospital, a part of the building I'd only visited once before during my initial hiring process. The hallways were sterile and corporate, all beige walls and motivational posters about "excellence in patient care" and "teamwork makes the dream work." It felt like a different world from the controlled chaos of the emergency department.
I found room 314 easily enough and knocked on the door at exactly 2 p.m.
"Come in," called a voice from inside.
Sarah Martin turned out to be a woman in her forties with short, graying hair and the kind of professionally neutral expression that gave nothing away. Her office was small and functional, dominated by a conference table surrounded by chairs that had seen better days.
"Mr. Dalton, thank you for coming in on such short notice," she said, gesturing for me to take a seat. "I know this interrupts your sleep schedule."
"No problem," I said, settling into the offered chair. "Though I have to admit, I'm curious about what's so urgent it couldn't wait for the usual email notification."
Sarah's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes — a momentary hesitation that made my stomach tighten with the first whisper of unease.
"Mr. Dalton, this isn't about a routine subpoena," she said carefully. "This is about a patient you treated approximately three weeks ago. Lisa Harris, thirty-eight years old, brought in by EMS on the night with injuries consistent with domestic violence."
