With a nod, she glanced at me as I moved closer to Lorenzo and her eyes dropped to my wounded arm. “You’re hurt.” My grin comforted her and she smiled.
“Go.” Lorenzo gestured for her to follow Dario. With a slight nod, she walked away. My brother turned his attention to me. “We’ve got things sorted here. Get yourself checked in at the hospital. I’ll meet you there.” I opened my mouth to argue and his brow shot up.
Accepting I was up against a wall with him, I turned and walked away, a few of our men following me.
twenty-four
. . .
Ishika– 31 years old
The day shift was already brutal. Three car crashes, one stabbing and a drunk who’d tried to swallow a handful of coins because he thought it would make him rich again. My body ached; my legs screamed for reprieve from not having sat down in five hours and my sleep-deprived head battled to keep up with the next minute. So, in retrospect, my mood hovered on the edge of civility leaving anything and anyone a moving target.
I was in Trauma three, stitching a deep leg wound when the echo of hard boots slapping the ER tiles followed by aggressive shouting, caught my ear. At first, I ignored it. The ER attracted drama like moths to a flame. A resounding crash mixed with yelling, the threatening kind, had me frowning.
“Take over,” I gestured to the nurse helping me, removed my gloves, tossed them in the disposal can and drew back the thick curtain, taking in the scene on the other side of the glass door.
A dozen or so men in dark suits and white bloodied shirts, clustered around one of the gurneys, their faces steel resolve, their body language undisguised threat as if protectingsomething. Judging from the way the staff shrank back, it wasn’t an average patient.
One man barked orders. “Clear this floor. Nobody touches the boss until the doc we called for gets here!”
The ER charge nurse tried to reason with him “Sir, you can’t just–”
He slammed a fist against the counter. “I said. Nobody touches him!”
Anger defacing my calm, I slid open the glass door and moved closer. “This is a hospital and unless one of you has a medical degree hidden in that suit, I suggest you shut up and step back,” my voice sliced through the noise.
Every head turned my way. Shock and awe colliding between the men and the staff. Then I caught a glimpse of the man they were guarding. Cold fathomless eyes, his white shirt stained pink from a leak running down his arm, a clenched jaw fitted with a blank expression.
That was all I noticed before one of the guards, a mountain of a man, tall, bald and body language dripping in testosterone, stepped in front of me. “Lady, I’d watch your tone, you don’t know who you’re talking to.”
I smiled, a dangerous one that came from too little sleep and not enough caffeine. “Here, size doesn’t matter, asshole.”
“What the fuck.” He reached for me.
I caught his wrist, twisted it back and drove my elbow into his sternum. His knees hit the floor with a grunt. Another lunged forward. I ducked, arced out a leg and swept his feet out from under him, sending him sprawling over the first one. In the moment the third hesitated, I met him halfway with a jab to the throat.
“Anyone else want to practice bad manners in my ER?” I goaded, breathing hard.
Gasps and curses erupted around me. The man on the gurney hadn’t moved. He just watched me, eyes half-lidded, amusement ghosting his blood splattered face.
Two more leaped toward me, I jumped and spun in the air, one foot catching one guy in the chest, sending him crashing into a wall while my hand connected with the other’s neck in a karate chop as I landed. Another charged and I tackled him just as I heard someone speak behind me.
I turned, my hands ready to let them feel my wrath, my sight momentarily blindsided by the handsome man, allowing him to gain leverage over me. Struggling in his grip, I took in the similar build to the man on the gurney, same dangerous presence yet sharper around the edges, older, his suit immaculate, his composure untouched, his eyes polished sapphires that promised fear.
Yikes.
twenty-five
. . .
Remo– 36 years old
Boredom was a luxury I couldn’t afford, but a bullet wound made time crawl. I sat on the edge of the examination bed, my injured hand cradled against my chest. If it wasn’t bleeding, I would’ve left it to heal on its own, the dull ache though, signified it could become a later problem and why I left Gian to handle the logistics of getting Carlo, the hospital director, out of a meeting.
I just needed the doctor. Instead, I got a show. Voices raised in the foyer. Aggressive. Familiar. Two of my men drunk on power, cornering a nurse. I didn’t look up. Discipline was Lorenzo’s problem, not mine. I focused on the email on my phone, tuning out the world.
Until the air shifted and I lifted my head just as one of my men flew across the room, landing on his ass with a primal groan, sliding across the linoleum. Slowly, I turned my head.
