“He’s been stabbed,” the tall man said, holding up another who was hanging against him like he had no strength to stand.
I nodded, directing the techs and nurses to assist me. When the interns ran close, likely eager for a “juicy” case and some action, I warned them back. “No.”
They didn’t need to be involved. They were too young, too sheltered, too innocent.
Fatima kept her head down and worked efficiently, as did I, as we got the man onto a gurney.
“Stabbed in his back,” the man said, cringing as his comrade in crime was flat and being wheeled away.
“You too?” I asked curtly.
“No.” He gestured at the others being hurried in. Two others looked to be in rough shape as well. “They were shot.”
Fuck. Fuck this.
I furrowed my brow at the results of so much violence. So much danger and carelessness for the gift of life and health they all abused. Like they were all-powerful, playing God to determine who should live or die.
Before I could get far, the man took hold of my wrist. “Dr. Donovon.”
“Please, he needs help.” I frowned at his keeping me in place.
“No registration. No documentation.” His stern look held all the authority necessary to chill me.
I pressed my lips together, displeased but not caring about his mandate either. He wouldn’t tell me what to do. Dawn or Donna or whoever in billing and registration could handle that headache. My role was to save this man’s life, not to judge whether he deserved to live for all the crimes he'd committed. Not to be proper and follow protocol to ensure he was registered and entered in the hospital’s billing department.
I pushed forward, breaking the man’s hold on my wrist. Shoving all thoughts about his reminder that I had to break the law and lie about this man ever being here, I snapped into the zone andworked with the team to stem the blood loss, to help patch up his wounds and determine if anything critical was happening with his brush with violence.
Hours passed as we all worked on keeping the man alive. Throughout it all, my conscience was flogged with the acknowledgment that I was already complicit. Treating anyone off the record in this facility was wrong. Going to a Mafia man’s home for a private house visit was more wrong.
This isn’t who I am.
This isn’t how I was raised.
My parents would be rolling over in their graves if they knew I was being complicit like this, an accomplice to fraud and lies.
Yet, I didn’t speak up. I didn’t try to follow protocol. The weight of the silence scared me. It unnerved me that I wasn’t stopping and doing the right thing by speaking up.
But once the man was taken to surgery and I left the room where we’d stabilized him, I spotted the Orlov guards in the hallway.
These two looked more “normal”, almost like plainclothesmen, but their serious and deadly stares spoke volumes.
I frowned and looked away, terrified to even speak to these criminals, to associate with these thugs, to harbor or facilitate a deeper connection to any of the Orlov Bratva members because of how much their boss intimidated me and left me so rattled.
Taking off my stethoscope and letting my shoulders sag, I turned down another hallway and hung my head.
What was I thinking?
Am I even thinking anymore?
There isnothingrational about my behavior.
Like Mikhail is some force of life to make me disregard the law and propriety.
Like he?—
I stopped short, almost colliding with someone.
“Whoa.”
