Page 13 of The Mobster’s Nurse

I can’t shake the memory of Luca’s hands, his lips, his breath. His savage voice.

Before I can even start to get comfortable, Daryl walks in. He looks flustered, tugging at the ends of his mustache as he often does. But usually, it’s a fidgeting gesture. Not like he’s trying to pull his face off.

“Ah, there you are,” he says, rushing in.

“Here I am,” I reply evenly.

He stands over me. That weird look in his eyes. I’ve worked here for almost a year. For the past two months, Daryl has been different. I assumed it was the stress of racing the horses. Or something at home. But after all this chaos, I’m not so sure.

“I need your help. You know what these people are like.” He talks fast, breathless. “They think we can just …” He snaps his fingers. “Poof, like magic, make their horses perform, make them better. Is it my fault that Lucky Charm didn’t perform as expected, or didn’t do what my bosses wanted? Win! Is it? No! After all, they are animals, for fuck’s sake.” When he slams one fist into the other, I lean back slightly. I’ve never seen him this angry. “Anyway.” He tugs on his mustache again. “I need you to sign a medical report for me. Need two signatures to make it official. About Lucky Charm.”

“Oh … kay,” I say carefully. “Saying what?”

“Just the truth,” he mutters, not meeting my eye. “The report is in my office. If you’ll…”

I stand. Take a breath. I’m not going to let him steamroll me. “What does the report say?” I ask, my voice firmer.

He huffs like he’s annoyed at me for even asking. “It says the truth, Ellie. That Lucky Charm showed signs of sickness intermittently for weeks before the race. He may have seemed well to Mr. Moretti and the trainers. But we know better. We saw the signs. We hoped he’d make it through. But his condition worsened.”

A pit opens in my stomach. Oh, fuck. This is bad. This means that my suspicions were right. Daryl is up to no good.

“But that’s not true, sir,” I say carefully.

He tilts his head quickly. His eyes blow wide like he’s stunned that I’d dare to say this to him. “It’s not?” he snaps, stepping close to me. “Are you sure about that?”

"She was doing very, very well," I say. "Her bloodwork two weeks ago was clean. Her weight was stable. If she'd been showing intermittent sickness for weeks, it would be in the records. It isn't.

“All I need is your signature,” he says. “That’s all. Not your commentary.”

“I won’t put my name on a lie.”

“It’s not a fucking lie,” he snarls. “If you were too blind to notice it, that’s not my fault. I wonder what your next employer would say if I told them you missed something so obvious. Do you think you’d even have a next employer?”

“I won’t falsify records,” I hiss. “Please, get out of my way.”

I hope he can’t hear the fear in my voice. For long moments, he stays where he is. Lip trembling. Making his mustache tremble. He looks like a man who's been told what will happen if he fails. Not angry. Not guilty. Terrified.

“Are you going to hit me?” I demand.

He looks disgusted. “I don’t hit women.”

“Then move, please.”

You liar. You asshole. How dare you make me feel scared?

Slowly, he steps aside, waving a hand. “You’re wrong here,” he grunts. “Don’t go getting any silly ideas in your head. You. Are. Wrong.”

I rush out of the room. Go into the bathroom and sit on the cold toilet seat, gripping my knees. Wondering what to do. I’m stuck between a mobster monster I can’t stop thinking about and the boss from Hell.

Somehow, the monster seems more appealing.

We hardly know each other. Our connection is all burning fire and hot flesh and a deep need to feel his lips and every other part of him. Not love. Not devotion.

Liar, a voice hisses inside me.

He’s the only man you’ll ever want. And you know it.

The voice laughs at that, too.