1
LUCA
Several Months Ago
The fluorescent lights above the gurney burn too bright, turning everything the color of old bone. I keep my breathing steady even though the hole in my shoulder feels like someone's grinding broken glass into the muscle. The ER smells like disinfectant and blood and fear, though the last one might just be coming from the kid two curtains over who took a knife to the gut in a bar fight.
"Sir, I need you to tell me how this happened." The voice comes from my left, and when I turn my head, I see her for the first time.
She has dark hair pulled back in a bun, warm brown eyes that should look tired after what's probably been a twelve-hour shift, but instead they're sharp, focused, assessing the damage to my body the way I assess a target. She moves with purpose, no wasted motion.
"Construction accident," I tell her, keeping my voice level. The lie tastes familiar on my tongue. “A nail gun misfired.”
She doesn't blink. Doesn't call me on the obvious bullshit. Instead, she reaches for my shirt, and her hands are gentle as she peels the blood-soaked fabric away from the wound. When her fingertips brush my bare chest, heat shoots straight to my gut. It's not the pain. Pain is an old friend, familiar and predictable.
This is hunger.
"This doesn't look like any construction accident I've ever seen." Her voice stays neutral, professional, but there's a flicker of something in those eyes. Not fear. Curiosity, maybe. "You want me to believe that someone on the construction site shot you? The entry and exit wounds suggest a bullet. Small caliber. Maybe a .22."
Smart. Beautiful. And touching me like she has the right. I want her to keep touching me. I want those hands on my skin for reasons that have nothing to do with the gunshot wound.
"You should see the nail gun they're using on the site." I hold her gaze, daring her to push. Most people look away when I stare at them like this. She doesn't.
"Right." She turns to the tray of supplies beside her, pulling on fresh gloves with practiced efficiency. "Well, your 'nail gun' went clean through. You're lucky it missed the bone and the major vessels. I'm going to clean and dress it, but you'll need antibiotics. Do you have a regular doctor?"
"No."
"Insurance?"
"No."
She glances at me, and for a moment I think she's going to argue. Instead, she just nods and reaches for the irrigation solution. When she starts cleaning the wound, her touch is surprisingly gentle for someone who knows I'm lying. Her fingers are steady, competent, and I watch the way she works. The way she bites her lower lip when she's concentrating. The way her throat moves when she swallows.
I want to put my mouth there.
"This is going to sting," she warns, and then she's flushing the wound with antiseptic. The burn is nothing. I've had worse. I've done worse to others.
As she works, I catalog everything. A small scar on the knuckles of her right hand—faded and thin—the kind you get from punching something that didn’t give. The faint shadows under her eyes that speak of too many shifts and not enough sleep. The pulse beating in her throat, steady and strong. Her name badge: Francesca Mancini, RN.
Francesca. I mouth the name silently, tasting it.
"What's your name?" I ask, even though I've already read it.
"Frankie." She doesn't look up from her work, applying a clean dressing with the same careful attention. "And you are?"
I consider giving her a fake name, but then I figure why bother? "Luca Santoro."
"Well, Mr. Santoro, you're going to need to keep this clean and dry. Change the dressing twice a day. If you notice any signs of infection—increased redness, warmth, swelling, discharge, fever—you need to come back immediately." She tapes down the final edge of the bandage and steps back, stripping off her gloves. "I'll have the doctor write you a prescription for antibiotics. Take all of them, even if you start feeling better."
"You're not going to report this?" The question comes out sharper than I intend, but I need to know. Need to understand why she's protecting a man she knows is dangerous.
Frankie meets my eyes again, and this time I see something deeper there. Understanding, maybe. Or maybe she's just tired of fighting a losing battle in a city that bleeds every night. "The chart's going to say construction accident. That's what you told me, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Then that's what happened." She turns away. "Try to be more careful with those nail guns, Mr. Santoro."
“Why cover for me? You don’t know who I am?”
