I know his file. Top of his class. Ruthless. Efficient. And, according to the hospital grapevine, completely devoid of a soul.
Standing next to him, tapping a red pen against the counter, is a woman who is clearly the actual boss. She is short, stout, and terrifying. She wears a scrub cap patterned with bright red chilli peppers.
"Dr. Silva," she says, her voice cutting through the noise like a scalpel. "Stop scaring the children. You look like a gargoyle."
"I’m establishing dominance, Mama," Silva mutters, not looking at her. "Where are the labs for Bed 3?"
"They’re back when I say they’re back,mijo," she snaps, pulling a Tupperware container out of her bag and shoving it into his chest. "Eat your oatmeal. You look peaked."
"I’m not hungry?—"
"Eat. The. Oatmeal."
He takes the container. "Yes, Ma’am."
So, the rumours are true. Rosa "Mama" Ortiz. Charge Nurse. The only person Alistair York is afraid of. And judging by the way Dr. Silva instantly crumbles, she is definitely his mother.
Silva scans the group of terrified interns. His gaze landson the frizzy-haired girl, then the guy sweating through his shirt, and finally, me.
He stops.
He looks at my hair. He looks at my tailored scrubs. He looks down at the loafers.
His lip curls. It isn't a subtle curl. It is a sneer of profound, spiritual disappointment.
"You," he says, pointing a pen at me.
"Dr. York," I supply helpfully. "Preston."
"I didn't ask," he snaps. He leans in, squinting at me. "How old are you? Do you even have a driver's license, or did your au pair drop you off?"
"I am twenty-three," I say, puffing out my chest slightly. "I was on the Dean's List."
"You're a baby," Silva groans. "Great. I’m babysitting. You’re late."
"I’m three minutes early," I check my Rolex.
"You’re onmytime, York," he says, stepping closer. He smells like soap and exhaustion. It’s surprisingly nice. "And on my time, if you aren't five minutes early, you’re late. And if you’re wearing shoes that cost more than my student loan debt, I assume you aren't planning to do any actual work."
"These have excellent traction," I lie. They have soles slippery as glass.
"We'll see," Silva says. He turns to the group. "I am Dr. Silva. This is Nurse Ortiz. She runs this floor. If you annoy me, I will make you do rectal exams until your fingers prune. If you annoyher, your body will never be found. Do you understand?"
The interns nod frantically.
He starts handing out assignments.
"Miller, you’re on post-op checks. Try not to faint." "Cheng, you’re shadowing Dr. O’Connell in Trauma. God speed." "Levine, scuts."
He stops at me. He taps the clipboard against his thigh. A dark, evil glint appears in his eyes.
"York," he says softly.
"Yes, Chief?"
"Bay 4 needs a consult."
"Excellent," I say, straightening my stethoscope. "Cardio? Neuro? A rare tropical disease?"
