Playlist recommendation:
cross my heart - Artemas
“35-year-old Caucasian male has just been transferred out of the ICU?—”
The background noise grew muffled.
It had a habit of doing that when you were at the end of a double shift the day before your PTO kicked in.
The only reason the words caught my attention at all was because I saw Custanzu Valentini on the gurney.
Again.
Having someone this high ranking in the hospital shouldn’t have been a frequent occurrence. The name, however, I had grown accustomed to hearing, even if I’d only acted as his care provider the one time.
Valentini often made an appearance in the ER. But the ICU was a definite upgrade.
The memory of him using his—admittedly impressive—genitals as a helicopter had me making a mental note to check in with George, who’d moved to Seattle once we’d passed our certification to become PAs.
My bleary eyes scoped out the corridors, on the hunt for Custanzu’s overbearing family.
But he was alone.
Again.
On the other occasions he’d been admitted, their absence had become a source of great discomfort.
My ma pecked over me like a hen when I so much as sliced my finger in the kitchen. Only smelling salts would have kept her upright if I were in the ICU.
This current situation was different than a quick visit to the ER for a stomach pumping. The latter I could excuse. An ICU stay plus their absence? Less so.
My familial sirens blared loud and clear.
Where was his mother? Why wasn’t she threatening to hit the nurses over the head with his chart for daring to approach her precious baby boy with a needle?
Where were his siblings, the twins who ruled over the Sicilian parts of the city with an iron fist?
In fact,wasn’tCustanzu Valentinitheir iron fist?
When he didn’t spend half his life treating the ER like a vacation hotspot, of course.
I knew he had an overbearing family. Currau had told me they were all up in each other’s business. Allegedly.
Fully aware that my next actions were illegal/immoral/unethical/all of the above, I grabbed my phone from the pocket in my scrubs and hit connect on my oldest brother’s name: Lucas.
“Sis? What’s wrong?”
“Does there have to be anything wrong for your sister to call you?” I chided around a yawn, just for the hell of it.
Lucas took far too much onto his shoulders. ‘Disgustingly responsible’ summed him up.
As I traipsed after the gurney that housed the Capo of theFamigghia, I heard him grumble, “Is it in your job description to give me shit, KittyKat?”
“You know I detest that nickname.”
Fucking Cade. My other brother had made that up. Why Lucas hadn’t drowned him at birth to spare us all is another grudge I should hold against him.
“And I’ll keep on calling you that for as long as you piss me off. Now, what’s going on? I can hear you’re at the hospital.”
