Moor (Twisted Bard)

Scene II

SCENE II

DES

D esmond Ellington, or Des to those close to him, was the surgeon on call. He had just completed one surgery and was preparing for another. He’d gotten the report on Othello Romano-Moor, his patient, who was in critical condition. Doctor Moretti stabilized him before removing the bullet.

Still, there were fragments near major blood vessels, posing several risks to the patient’s survival, which was why he needed to operate immediately. Des knew it was going to be a long and difficult surgery.

Once he was ready, Des entered the operating room and greeted the staff. With their masks on, Des couldn’t tell who they were, but he knew that he had never worked with this group of staff before. He wasn’t sure why that thought came to him at such a moment, but he couldn’t deny that he had questions and hoped to get the answers later.

“Alright, people, talk to me.” He walked over to examine the X-ray again.

“His vitals are stable,” Nurse Campos said.

Des nodded, then moved to Mister Moor’s side. For a second, his brain stuttered. He had never taken notice of the people he operated on, or anyone else for that matter. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the impressively built man lying on the operating table. He was far too good-looking to ignore, even in his dire state. Des’s eyes traveled down Moor’s body, taking in every aspect of his light bronze skin, his chest, and the tattoos on his arms, stopping at his fingers that were even inked with letters he couldn’t quite read because of the position he was lying in.

Des was thankful that Moor’s bottom half was covered, or he’d feel like a straight-up perv the way he was checking the man out. But still, he couldn’t help but wonder if that thing was just as remarkable as the rest of his body. He felt his face heat up at what he was thinking.

“Doctor, are you okay?” Nurse Campos asked, snapping him out of his perverted thoughts.

“Y-yeah.” Des cleared his throat, hoping no one noticed he was checking out the guy he was about to operate on. “Let’s get to work. We have a life to save.”

Someone turned on the music as the team began working in sync like a well-oiled machine. Des made the incision and got down to business, keeping his eyes and ears on the patient’s vitals. He could see the damage from the bullets and was amazed the man was still alive. He kept searching for the first fragments that were near a very delicate spot near the pulmonary artery, and just as he got close to the fragment, the machines started beeping widely.

“Doctor, he’s crashing,” Nurse Campos announced.

“I know that, dammit,” Des snapped.

Des worked furiously to retrieve the fragment, but he was having some difficulty due to all the bleeding. He barked orders, mentally blocking out the beeps and using his instincts to search for the fragment. Since becoming a surgeon, Des hadn’t lost one patient, and he didn’t plan on losing one now.

“Come on, come on,” Des muttered to himself. “We’re not losing you tonight, handsome, so stay the fuck away from the light.”

In the next second, Des struck gold, clasping the fragment and slowly pulling it out. He quickly attended to the bleeding just as the machine slowed down, going back to normal, but Des couldn’t breathe in relief yet; he still had to get the other fragment. His brows creased tighter when he realized the fragment was another bullet that, if it had gone any closer, would have pierced Moor’s lungs.

Fuck, how did Doctor Morreti miss this?

Adding that to his list, Des focused on the matter at hand. His hands moved with expert grace and speed, every motion deliberate and precise, putting every bit of his energy into keeping the patient alive. The minutes flicked into hours before he could say the surgery was complete. Othello Moor was still in critical condition but no longer knocking on death’s door. Des twisted his head from side to side, working out the kinks as he stretched his aching back, then stepped from the operating table, exhaustion etched on his face, but he was satisfied with his work.

“Well done, everyone. We saved another life.” The operating staff clapped, relief evident in their eyes.

Des nodded to his team, leaving them to clean up and going to the waiting room to speak to the Moor family. Although he had saved another life, becoming a doctor hadn’t been his dream since growing up. Truthfully, he’d wanted to be an artist, but trying to express those ideas to his parents, who were doctors and administrators of the hospital he worked for, was completely out of the question.

To them, he could never make it as an artist like the greats, and he should just give it up. He was their son, had a legacy to continue, and was groomed from early on to take up the mantle. And they made sure he did by setting the structure of his education and limiting who he could hang out with. He was the youngest graduate in his high school and medical school, and later, he was a hospital resident who was sometimes envied and sometimes liked by the hospital staff.

Des couldn’t deny he was good at what he did. He was confident, with a very steady hand, but there were times he wished he could buck the parental system and do what he wanted. He would quit being a doctor and return to college, getting his fine arts degree and having the life he’d strived for. At twenty-six, Des had become so accustomed to them taking over his life that he wasn’t sure if he was living their lives or his. While most medical students were just starting out, he was a third-year resident. It was only recently, after he had moved out of the family home, that he gained control of his bank accounts.

Hell, I’m still a virgin, for crying out fucking loud.

Des was born with the mark of a carrier that was on his upper right thigh, hidden by his testicles. It was shaped like an iris. Carriers were men able to bear children and were recognized at birth by a mark somewhere on their bodies. The mark could be a flower, an animal, or even something like a star. Other than being able to birth children, no one had been able to figure out if the marks meant anything more. They did not distinguish how many children a person might have; it was simply a symbol of another societal purpose. He would be a fool to say some carriers were not discriminated against once their status was known, whether out of jealousy or disgust.

But even if he weren’t a carrier, Des had known he liked guys from an early age but had never even been on a date. Maybe it was because he never found anyone interesting enough for him to ask them out. He and his parents had never discussed the fact that he was a carrier; it was as if they were ashamed that he was one or they didn’t care. Growing up, all he ever did was study. In high school, his parents never allowed him to play sports or spend time with other kids to gain a friend or two, even though he didn’t have any to begin with. It wasn’t until college that he met two people he’d come to care for as a family. His parents were strict about his doing anything that would ruin his hands because they knew he was destined to be a surgeon. But they had no problem with him learning to play the piano.

They knew the long hours of sitting in a proper posture would strengthen his back and the flexibility of his fingers, not to mention all the other benefits. It wasn’t as if Des didn’t try to do his own thing. He’d endured his parents’ rules, believing that he would be free of them when he got to college, but he was dead wrong. Des had applied to the fine arts program. However, his parents put a wrench in his plans, making him realize just how far their money and influence stretched, and influenced the school administrator who rejected his program application. When Des found out, he was pissed as hell and confronted them.

“Did you think I would pay for some idiotic art degree?” his father yelled. “You will become a doctor, and that is the end of this conversation.”

“You cannot keep running my life,” Des shouted.

“Desmond, you will do as your father says. Can’t you see we’re thinking of your future?” his mother added softly.

“My future? Are you going to continue using that excuse for the rest of my life? I have done everything you ask me to do. I missed out on being a child, studying, and graduating early because you wanted me to. I’m a high school graduate with no friends to call on, no damn life whatsoever, and I want to be an artist. Is that so damn wrong!”

“I will not argue with you any longer, Desmond. Your father and I have already decided. You will stop this artist nonsense and do as we say.”

Ignoring his mother, Des snarled, “I want the inheritance grandfather left me.”

“This idiotic boy,” his father snapped. “Then I suggest you go to medical school because you will never see one red cent of that money unless you graduate.”

At that finality, his parents left him with no other options. He’d conceded like he always did. Des admitted he could have gotten a job and worked his way through school, but at sixteen, he wasn’t sure how to sustain himself. He couldn’t have gone to another family member; they would have taken his parents’ side, no question. As for the inheritance from both his maternal and paternal grandfathers, the only way to get his hands on it was, believe it or not, if he became a doctor and stayed in the field for at least five years.

His maternal grandfather owned Branford Healthcare, one of the largest healthcare companies in Verona Heights, and until he died, Des wouldn’t see a red cent of his inheritance. Since the man was still alive and kicking, Des didn't even think about that money. His paternal grandfather had also been a doctor, known as one of the best surgeons in his field, and he’d contributed many medical advances in his lifetime that were used today. Des figured he could hold out for that long. He was just happy there weren’t any other stipulations like getting married and having a certain amount of children before they could get a divorce.

Des was two years away from fulfilling the stipulations, but he didn’t know how much more he could take. He’d fast-tracked everything, from college and medical school to his residency, hoping the years would pass quickly. It felt like that for a while, but the last couple of years felt like they were dragging. He wasn’t ungrateful that he was given the best in life; however, he felt trapped by his surroundings.

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 all their 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 na?ve 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 hospital room 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 other movements. It seemed to Othello that the battle was far from over—it was only the beginning.