If staring down the barrel of this asshole’s gun was the most terrifying experience of my life, I’d count myself a lucky bitch, but as it stands, today’s just another adrenaline-fueled day in the longest running streak of bad luck in history.
I should stop calling it luck and start calling it fate. Destiny must want me to live in the direct path of danger.
I hate it. This man represents everything I despise with his expensive suit and narcissism, yet I know better than to give in to my anger, so I take a deep breath and let it fester just below the surface of my skin, using the rage as fuel despite my calm demeanor.
“Be a doll and unzip my pants, would you?”
The man may have been a catch in his prime, but with his disheveled hair stiff with gel, blood smeared all over his face, his shirt sleeves shoved up to reveal the faded tattoos on his forearms, and the disgusting glint in his eyes, he’s the ugliest patient I’ve had in a long while.
I’d rather deal with the homeless drunkard who hasn’t showered in a month than go anywhere near this guy, but the gun in his hand and the blood pouring from his wounds limit my choices.
I snap on my gloves and wave Dr. Tyler toward the head of the exam table as I step deeper into the room. The new doctor may be a few years older than I am, but he’s never worked in the emergency department before, and he just earned his license a few weeks ago. Plus, his mannerisms suggest he’s never had a hard day in his life, other than studying and lab work.
“I’m not the doctor, just a nurse,” I say with more snark than I probably should, but this asshole barged in at the end of my eighteen-hour shift, so my patience is already wearing thin.
“Like I give a shit? Take off my pants, puttana.”
Bitterness coats my tongue as he spits the curse word at me. It’s been years since I’ve heard someone other than my sister speak Italian, but if I never hear it again, I’ll die happy. My heart squeezes in my chest as I approach him, but I unfasten his belt and yank down his zipper with the clinical detachment I’ve learned throughout my time as a nurse.
“Lift your hips,” I instruct.
He drops his pistol to the table, props himself up with his hands, and curses when I tug his waistband down to his knees. When he fixes his muzzle to my temple and clicks the hammer back, I take a deep breath and almost choke on his cologne. The heavy scent of coppery blood coats my tongue, making my stomach churn.
“Try to be gentle, bitch. One wrong move—”
“And you’ll bleed out before the cops get here,” I interrupt.
He scowls. I quirk a brow.
“Fucking hell, patch me up already. That goddamn stronzo will pay for this.”
I don’t justify his curse with a response and honestly couldn’t give a shit who he’s talking about. Curiosity killed the cat, and all that.
After a quick visual check, I grab a few items from the cabinets and pull the tray closer to the bed.
“Be still. This’ll hurt, but the bullets need to come out,” I say without mentioning the gun still trained on my head.
I don’t want to die. In fact, I desperately want to live. For my sister. My mother. My aunt. Myself.
Every day I’m free is another day I prove my worth beyond being a broodmare or a sex doll.
I lean over his thigh and lower the elongated tweezers toward the worst of his wounds.
He grabs my wrist and snarls, “Numb it first, you worthless whore.”
I glance at Dr. Tyler, who looks ready to piss himself, before meeting the asshole’s glare.
“I don’t have the authorization to—”
The man’s string of curses shouldn’t amuse me, especially in such a dangerous situation, but a warped sense of delight bubbles in my chest.
“Fine, just be quick. I can’t stay long,” he snarls.
Fuck. He’s being hunted. An old Italian man in an expensive suit with gunshot wounds. He’s mafia.
This is bad. Really, really bad.
I need to get him out of here as fast as possible, then I need to disappear.
He sets the gun beside himself and grips the edge of the table. I give him a clinical once-over before narrowing my focus on his thigh.
When I dig into the wound, his knuckles turn white and he screams in pain. Despite how much I long to punish him for whatever crimes he no doubt committed, I locate the first bullet and pull it out as quickly as possible.
This bastard is either very lucky or the shooter didn’t intend to kill him. With three closely lumped bullets in his outer thigh, he gushes blood even though his femoral artery is intact. Which means they wanted him injured enough to seek professional medical help but not die.
I check the bullet, ensuring I’m not leaving pieces behind, and drop it in the metal pan on the tray. I lower the tweezers back into the wound and extract the second bullet.
He passes out. I dive back in for the third bullet.
“Should I call the cops?” Dr. Tyler asks.
“There’s no need for that, doc.”
We both stiffen as a shadow fills the doorway. Adrenaline floods through me, but I place the bullet in the pan and press a heavy layer of gauze over all three wounds, packing and applying pressure to slow the bleeding.
A glance over my shoulder reveals the shadow is another gangster, but this male is more thuggish than the guy passed out on my makeshift operating table. He’s older, too. Scars line his arms and face, and he’s had a broken nose at least twice.
He poses a bigger physical threat than the man on the table, but I know from experience he’s just a lackey. He’s my patient’s bodyguard.
“Come here,” I command with an impatient glance at him.
Surprise widens the newcomer’s eyes, but I nod down at my hands.
“Apply pressure. You’ll get out of here quicker if I can start on his other wounds instead of standing here,” I explain.
He assesses the situation before tucking his pistol in the back of his waistband and lumbering into the room. I pass the compression job to him, not mentioning his dirty hands since getting these two men out of here is more of a priority than worrying about an infection. I move to the far side of the table.
Two gashes on the man’s bicep bleed freely, but I yank open his button-down shirt and check the oozing wound on his side. Burns surround the torn flesh. Another bullet wound, but too superficial for stitches.
With the lackey distracted, I give a pointed glance over my shoulder and say, “Dr. Tyler, some antibiotics, please,” hoping he remembers to press the silent alarm on his way down the hall.
He nods and rushes through the doorway. The meathead doesn’t react.
My patient wakes in a sluggish rush. I push him back down and cut his sleeve up to his shoulder. Deciding the blood flushed out all potential debris, I take the needle and thread from the tray and stitch both gashes with steady hands.
“Where’d the medigan go?” the bosshole asks.
Fuck. He noticed Dr. Tyler isn’t here. I tie the last thread and cut the end.
“To get antibiotics. You’ll need them,” I say with a head tilt toward my impromptu assistant, indicating his dirty hands.
“Are you trying to kill me, trioa? You planned this, didn’t you? Get off me.”
He shoves me away. I lift my bloody gloves to shoulder height and take several steps back. With a few angry motions, he slaps a bandage over his arm and snarls for the bodyguard to move back before wrapping a strip around his leg.
He gingerly pushes off the table and pulls his pants up before grabbing his gun and limping toward me. I neither flinch nor avoid his eyes as he invades my space, stepping so close his body heat seeps into my front. My insides curdle with disgust as he fingers my name badge and trails the muzzle of his pistol down the side of my face.
“Don’t worry, Mia Rivera, I’ll be back for you, so be careful what you tell the cops, capisci? I promise you’ll pay for every word,” he murmurs.
Despite the tension coiling through me, I return his glare until he chuckles in amusement and turns toward the door. Even though Mia isn’t my real name, hearing him speak it is too much. I need to get away from him. Now.
His lackey follows him like a brainless idiot. For several long, drawn out moments, I stand alone for the first time in what feels like a century. The clock ticks on the wall. Blood drips off the corner of the table and splashes onto the floor. The fluorescent lights hum in the ceiling.
Dr. Tyler appears in the doorway, snapping me out of my trance. I yank the disgusting gloves off my hands and start cleaning the room.
“The police are on the way,” he says.
I turn to him.
“Give them a timeline and a rundown of injuries, but no physical descriptions or identifying information.”
He purses his lips as he studies the room.
“That’s probably smart, huh? Should you be cleaning? Isn’t this a crime scene?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“You don’t want to get involved with men like him, Dr. Tyler. Even if the cops take evidence, it’ll all disappear. I’d rather be ready for the next patient,” I say with a shrug.
He doesn’t pester me further, retreating to the front desk instead.
When the police arrive a whopping twenty minutes later, I give a brief statement, omitting every detail possible. The cops don’t question me further, since calls like this happen fairly often in this area.
New York City is perfect for anonymity, but not for safety.
I finish my shift and clock out as soon as the next nurse clocks in. She gives my shoulder a squeeze before settling behind the front desk.
I head to the on-call room, take a quick shower, and change into street clothes before shuffling out into the smoggy morning air. The sun barely lightens the sky above the towering buildings.
Despite my exhaustion, I stay aware of my surroundings as I weave through the streets to the subway station. The city never sleeps. Energy buzzes in the air as the homeless prepare for the morning rush hour.
I scan my subway card and wait under the brightest light until my train squeals into the station, then sit as close to the door as I can. Several stops later, I exit and continue up the steps as the first wave of nine-to-fivers rush into the tunnel.
With a healthy dose of paranoia, I check behind my reflection in every window I pass and wait until the sidewalk is clear before I unlock the front door to my building. My legs ache, but I take the stairs to the third floor before getting on the elevator to ride the rest of the way up to my apartment.
Some days, I get straight on. Other days, I walk up to a higher floor before using the elevator. Random is the name of the game.
I don’t dawdle in the hallway. No matter how nice the security may be, I hate the transition from the elevator to my apartment, so I give a quick check of my surroundings before slipping inside.
I drop my bag on the chipped laminate counter and kick my shoes into the organizer before I stumble across the room. My sister’s bag sits on the faded couch and soft classical music seeps out from under her door, so she must be getting ready for her morning classes. I unlock my screen and check my alarm before plugging in my phone and dropping it on my bedside table. I fall onto my bed.
Exhaustion pulls me into a dark, dreamless sleep.
I jerk awake when a hand settles onto my shoulder.
“Mia sorella, get up. Are you okay? Your nose is bleeding.”
Warmth gushes down my face as I sit up. I curse and pinch the bridge of my nose. Katherine presses a wad of toilet paper to my face. After a few futile swipes, she pats my leg, rushes to the bathroom, and returns with a damp washcloth.
After she cleans the blood off my face, I thank her and take a fresh wad of tissue from her.
“Are you headed to class?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“No, I just got back. I only had one today, and my shift doesn’t start for another hour, so I came home to drop off my books. Your door was open. I could see the blood from the kitchen. What happened?”
She’s too sweet. A lump clogs my throat and the urge to tell her about my night barrels through me, but I shake my head, careful not to dislodge my fingers from my nose, and offer her a lopsided smile.
“I’m okay. It’s probably just from the long hours. I’ll try to get day shifts next rotation,” I say.
She knows it’s a lie. As kids, we called my nosebleeds our warning system, like they foreshadowed the omens in our future, but now that we’re older, we don’t dare joke about them. They’ve warned us of too many catastrophic events already.
“You’d better move to day shifts and stop working overtime. I rarely see you nowadays. You know I can’t live without you, right?”
Although she says the words playfully, sincerity shines from her gorgeous green eyes. With striking features and sleek, raven hair, she’s perfect model material, but she’d hate the spotlight. She always has and always will.
“You know me, right?” I scoff. “I’m too stubborn to die from a nosebleed, so don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”
I sound so nasally and ridiculous with my nose pinched. Amusement replaces the fear lingering in my sister’s expression.
She’s less than two years younger than me, but all I see when I look at her is the innocent girl cowering behind my mother’s skirts when we were younger. I wouldn’t wish our upbringing on anyone, but it was especially cruel for someone with such a gentle soul as hers. I wish I could go back in time and free her from our family earlier.
Unwilling to slip deeper into my depressing thoughts, I check the time on my phone and grimace.
“You’re such a liar,” Katherine chuckles.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m stuck with you unless it’s time for work. Which, of course, it always is, isn’t it?” she sighs, but there’s no heat in her complaint.
“Nuh-uh, I don’t have to leave for another thirty minutes,” I say.
She huffs and throws her hands in the air.
“Great, that means I woke you up early! I’m the worst sister ever.”
With her sweet voice lilting through the air, she glides out of my room, snags a takeout bag off the counter, and plops it onto the bed beside me. My mouth waters and stomach rumbles. Even with my sinuses full of blood, the delicious smells wafting from the bag awaken my hunger.
“I think you mean the best sister ever,” I say as I shove my hand into the takeout bag and shovel a handful of fries into my mouth.
She offers me a dazzling smile and shakes her head.
“Nope. The title of best sister belongs to you. Besides, I’m just buttering you up so you won’t forget about me over the long weekend.”
Right. She’s going on a trip with her college buddies.
We’re not kids anymore. She’s twenty-three years old and is always careful. She never takes chances with her safety. I trust her.
It’s the rest of the world I hold a grudge against.
I swallow my misgivings and shove another handful of fries in my mouth with a happy groan.
“Promise you’ll bring me another burger when you get back, and I’ll forgive you for abandoning me,” I mumble around my mouthful.
She laughs and shakes her head in faux admonishment as she turns and waltzes into the living room.
“Deal!” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing into her room.
Her happiness fills the shabby apartment, and for a moment, everything feels okay.
My smile slowly fades away and the fries lose their flavor as I recall last night’s incident. Even if I never see that man again, it’s too dangerous to keep working there.
He was definitely a prominent figure in the local mafia. Someone was chasing him, which means they’ll probably visit the hospital, too.
I escaped the mafia lifestyle seven years ago. I can’t go back. Ever.
As soon as I clock in to work, I’ll request a transfer. It doesn’t matter where they send me. Anywhere will be safer than staying where I am.
I can’t tell my sister either. The less she knows, the better. She’s finally settled into a happy routine. She has friends, a job, and can dream of a promising future for the first time in her life. I can’t bring myself to dampen her joy.
I scoot back against the headboard and pull the takeout into my lap.
No nosebleed will stop me from enjoying my sister’s gift and no criminal will ruin the life I’ve worked so hard to build.
I am no longer Emma Lanza, the daughter of San Francisco’s most ruthless mafia don. My father can’t force me to marry the cruelest man on the planet, and I don’t have to watch my sister cower because of him ever again.
My name is Mia Rivera, and I’m a damn excellent nurse. Any hospital will be lucky to have me, so transferring will be quick and easy.
I hope.
