There were many times he felt like saying fuck it all to hell and walking away from it, but he had to wait. He needed his inheritance to accomplish his goals and get his parents off his back. He secretly did everything he could to prepare for the day he got his inheritance and walked away from his parents and medicine. Over the years, he’d been going to school online part-time and would be finishing his BA in fine arts by the end of the year. He would have loved to fast-track his art degree like he did his medical, but with his irregular work schedule, he had to make do with taking his time. He wished his heart was in the job because he was doing good by saving lives. But he felt like a robot going through the motions, waiting for someone to turn the off switch.
The only thing that brought him to life was his love for art. It wasn’t that he wanted to be a world-famous artist but to open his own art studio, teaching others with his talent and dream. Most would think it was silly for him to want stardom for others rather than himself, but he wanted a simple life. When he had time, he would lose himself in his art or go to museums, wishing he had someone to appreciate the works of the many greats who came before him.
He would love to be in a relationship or have a family someday. As much as his parents had their faults, he knew they loved each other, and he envied that aspect of their lives. To be able to be honest with his feelings with someone. But he was afraid to open his heart. Des couldn’t blame cautiousness on his parents. He wasn’t sure if he could trust someone to take control when he needed it properly.
Although he had never been in a relationship or had sex unless it was his hands, Des knew he had a kinky or a fetish bone. If anyone ever tried to break the password on a certain folder on his computer, they would know exactly what he wanted in bed. He got off on images of being tied up, being spanked, being fucked in public, being blindfolded, and many other things. Des kept his proclivities to himself, afraid that if he said them aloud, others might look at him weirdly or with disgust. Maybe it was why he didn’t have a lover.
For that to happen, he would need to trust the person completely, and he’d seen others go through way too much for love. Some would say being a surgeon was risky enough since he had control over a person’s life, but he saw things differently. As much as he didn’t want to be a doctor in the operating room, he knew what he was doing, and his patients and their family put alltheir trust in him to save their lives; outside of it, he was a lost fucking cause.
Des stopped just before he got to the waiting room and collected his thoughts. A few seconds later, he entered the room and saw a group of men of various statures dressed in dark suits, stopping whatever conversation or activity they were doing and staring at him. For a second, he thought they were the secret fucking service guarding the President of the United States. Amid the men sat a gentleman with graying temples, adding a certain elegance to his brown locks. He had a commanding presence, with his dark, intense eyes and thick eyebrows framing his masculine and handsome features. Des wouldn’t lie. He was afraid of how intense all the men’s eyes were on him.
He cleared his throat, hoping to remove any tremors from his tone. “I’m Doctor Desmond Ellington. I’m here to speak to the Moor family.”
“Doctor, how’s my son?” the gentleman with graying temples asked as he stood with the aid of a cane and the man closest to him.
Truthfully, the man didn’t look old enough to require a cane, but since Des didn’t know the man, he kept that part to himself and answered the man’s question. “Mister Moor is in stable condition. I got all the fragments, including the second bullet, which Doctor Morretti missed. I will be honest with you, the next twenty hours are critical, but I’m confident he will pull through.”
There was a collective sigh from the other men, and the older gentleman nodded, and a soft expression passed through his eyes so quickly that if he wasn’t looking, he was certain he would have missed it.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Des responded. “It’s part of the job. He will be taken to the ICU shortly and watched for the next twenty-four hours. But I’d advise tonight that only two should go in at a time. Can you tell me what he was doing before he got shot? I didn’t see it in his file. I need to put it in my report.”
No one responded, and Des felt it wasn’t a question he should have asked.Well, that’s not suspicious at all, said no one ever.
If they weren’t going to answer him, there wasn’t anything he could do. He’d just have to let the proper authorities do their job. Des nodded respectfully because he felt that was what he had to do, then left them to their business, with too many questions but too afraid to ask. Besides, it was not for him to know. Going to the on-call room, he pulled out his cellphone, and saw five missed calls. Two were from his mother, one was from his good friend, Gray, and the last two were from his best friend Bianca, whom he’d known since college, who was probably calling him to brag about the new guy she’d met a couple of weeks ago but still wouldn’t tell Des the guy’s name or what he did for a living. She would say he was the sweetest guy she’d ever met or dated.
Deciding that he’d rather get some sleep and would deal with them all tomorrow, Des pushed his phone under his pillow and then grabbed a quick shower. He tried to be as quiet as possible; he didn’t want to wake up the other doctor, who had probably just closed his eyes for a quick nap like himself, just in case he got called again. Des wasn’t the only surgeon on call, but some nights, he felt as if he were. Opening his locker, he grabbed his towel and then stripped out of his scrubs before heading to the showers.
Standing under the steaming water, his mind drifted to the handsome man he’d just operated on. He’d never considered the reasons that brought a person to his operating table, but the wounds were too deep to ignore; if the bullets had been to the right, they would have torn his heart apart. It made him wonder what kind of job he did. Maybe he was a cop like Gray, who got hurt on the job. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he pushed it away; by the look of those guys in the waiting area, they all seemed as if they were part of the mafia.
But that’s silly, right? Mobster shit is only in the movies.Turning off the water, he wrapped his towel around his waist as he walked out of the bathroom and dressed as his mind wandered. Des knew that there were criminal activities going on in Verona Heights, figuring it was like any other big city or state, but he thought there was still an active mobster element. Or maybe he was naïve in his thinking, and a deep, dark underworld ran through Verona Heights.
But then again, why would he care? He was a doctor and not a cop like Gray, whose job was to take down the bad guys. Getting into bed, he set his alarm in case he got to sleep a bit longer before getting up for his rounds. Snuggling deep into the cover, he put thoughts of the mafia and everything else from his mind and drifted off to sleep.
In the hospitalroom lit by the moonlight, machines beeped rhythmically next to Othello, who lay unconscious. His chest rose and fell with the help of the ventilator. His wounds were hidden beneath layers of bandages as his life teetered on the scale of life and death.
A tall figure stood at the large windows of the private room, gazing out at the horizon as the sun slowly rose, waking up the world, completely unaware of the previous night's events. At times, he wished he could burn the world to ash, but he was certain there would be someone to ruin his well-thought-out plans like the night before.
He was sure a bullet to the heart would have taken the bastard out, but as always, Othello was one lucky fucker. The tall figure glanced at the sleeping man, tempted to take him out now, but he wasn’t ready to show his hand. He was growing tired of sitting on the sidelines and watching everyone get what should have been his from the start. The figure scowled, thinking about how his loyalty to Alessandro Romano had given him nothing. It should have been him who got the position of underboss, not fucking Othello.
What the hell has he done to gain such a high position when I’ve been by the don’s side through everything?The man scoffed.Be prepared, because sooner or later, your time will run out.He turned, forming his fingers into a gun, pointing at Othello’s chest before moving it up to the man’s head.I’ll have another chance, and I won’t miss it next time.A sardonic smile crossed his lips as he pulled the pretend trigger. Chuckling, he put his hands in his pockets, turning his back to his sleeping form, plotting Othello’s demise.Enjoy the time you have left, Othello.
As if sensing an enemy nearby,Othello stirred in his sleep. His fingers twitched slightly, showing signs of life but no othermovements. It seemed to Othello that the battle was far from over—it was only the beginning.
SCENE III
OTHELLO
The sleeping figure in the hospital bed slowly became aware of the rhythmic beeping of machines. He pried his eyes open, squinting as they connected with an unfamiliar white ceiling. From the sound of the machines beeping in his ears, he was in the hospital.
So I didn’t die.
The events of what happened last night came back to him. He recalled the ambush and being shot in the chest during the meeting with the Falcon clan. His chest felt tight, but it didn’t hurt. He thanked all the gods in the universe for whatever drug he was on. In all his years being a part of the La Famiglia Romano, he never thought he’d see himself in the hospital, laid flat out on his back, staring up at the white ceiling because of a bullet wound to the chest. They had gone in unprepared. Usually, Othello would have worn a bulletproof vest when they met with other clans or worn one of his suits that was made out of Kevlar. The suits were not foolproof since they were made to handle low-caliber rounds, but he might not have ended up in the hospital. Some would say it was karma for all the shit he’ddone to people over the years, but he wasn’t above telling those same people to go fuck themselves.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to sit up but decided not to when he felt a slight twinge in his chest. Instead, Othello stayed in his position, vowing to find out what the fuck happened and who was behind it. He did not doubt that the don was already looking into things, but it didn’t make him feel any better when what went down last night shouldn’t have happened. He opened his eyes and allowed them to adjust to the brightness before turning his head and scanning his surroundings. He paused when he spotted Tallen and Marco sitting on the couch, passed out asleep.
He decided not to wake them, knowing they were tired from the night’s events and keeping watch over him. Othello turned his gaze to the window and looked out at the beautiful blue sky. He was genuinely happy to see it, even though he had been prepared to die. Life and death in his world were nothing new. He’d known what could happen when he chose this route as a career. He and Iago, who was his brother of heart, not blood, were taken in by a crime organization when they were thirteen, and they didn’t regret it at all.
