Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Liam
Dr. Torrino’s office is nothing like what I expected from a “mafia doctor.” Instead of some back-alley clinic that reeks of desperation and questionable hygiene, it’s a proper medical facility tucked discreetly above a pharmacy in Bloomsbury.
Clean, well-equipped, and surprisingly welcoming despite its unconventional clientele.
The doctor himself is a man in his seventies with silver hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and hands that move with the steady precision of someone who’s spent decades putting people back together.
He greets Nicky like family, which, in the complex web of loyalty that defines this world, he probably is.
“Nicolo,” he says warmly, gesturing us toward the examination room.
“Dr. Torrino,” Nicky says, settling onto the examination table while I hover nearby, “this is Liam. He’s the one who did the initial first aid yesterday.”
The doctor’s eyebrows rise with interest as he begins examining Nicky’s bandaged arm. “Really? Well, let’s see what kind of work we’re dealing with.”
He unwraps the dressing I applied yesterday with careful efficiency, and I find myself holding my breath. I did my best with what we had available, but this is a real medical professional who probably has actual standards.
“Hmm,” Dr. Torrino murmurs, turning Nicky’s arm to examine the cut from different angles. “Very good. Clean, properly aligned, and these Steri-Strips are placed exactly where I would have situated them for temporary closure.”
Relief floods through me. “Really?”
“Really. Where did you learn first aid?”
The question catches me off guard. I hadn’t really thought about it as learned knowledge, just something I’d picked up out of necessity.
“Prison,” I say honestly. And it feels refreshing. This man is mafia, he is hardly going to judge me or be shocked. I can speak freely.
As if to prove my point, the doctor nods calmly, without so much as batting an eyelid.
“I worked in the medical bay for most of my sentence.” I continue. “Started as just cleaning and basic tasks, but the nurse practitioner there taught me quite a bit.”
Dr. Torrino’s hands still on Nicky’s arm, and he looks at me with renewed interest. “You enjoyed the work?”
“I did, actually.” It surprises me to realize how true that is. “I liked being able to help people. And I liked learning how the body works, how to fix things when they go wrong.”
“Prison medical work can be challenging,” Dr. Torrino says carefully, beginning to clean the wound with professional thoroughness. “Limited resources, difficult conditions. Challenging patients. It’s a good training ground for practical skills.”
I think about the medical bay at Brixton, understaffed, overcrowded, dealing with everything from minor injuries to overdoses to the kind of trauma that comes from men trapped in a violent environment with no escape.
It had been challenging, but also oddly satisfying.
One of the few places in that hellhole where I felt like I was doing something worthwhile.
“The nurse practitioner, Sarah, she was brilliant,” I find myself saying. “She could handle anything. Taught me to dress wounds, basic pharmacology, how to assess head injuries. Said I had good hands for delicate work.”
Dr. Torrino begins stitching Nicky’s arm with the kind of steady competence that comes from decades of practice. “Would you like to assist?”
The offer startles me. “I... are you sure?”
“Quite sure. Wash your hands thoroughly, and then come help me with this.”
I glance at Nicky, who simply smiles and nods. Apparently quite willing to be a guinea pig. He’s not even flinching from the first stitch he has received, so I guess he has acquired a high pain threshold and isn’t going to be bothered by my fumbling.
I scrub my hands at the small sink in the corner, nerves and excitement warring in my chest. It’s been weeks since I’ve done any medical work, but the moment I put on the disposable gloves Dr. Torrino points me to, it all comes flooding back.
The focus, the satisfaction of precise work, the simple pleasure of helping someone heal.
“Hold the skin together here,” he instructs, positioning my hands. “That’s it. Perfect pressure.”
Working alongside him feels natural in a way that surprises me.
Our hands move in easy coordination, his experience guiding my assistance, and I find myself falling into the familiar rhythm of medical work.
The careful attention to detail, the quiet concentration, the sense of purpose that comes from doing something genuinely useful.
“Excellent,” Dr. Torrino says as he ties off the final suture. “You have very steady hands, and good instincts for the work.”
Pride blooms in my chest, the first time I’ve felt truly proud of myself for something, in longer than I can remember.
“Thank you,” I say, helping him apply the final dressing. “That was... I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed this.”
Dr. Torrino strips off his gloves and looks at me thoughtfully. “You know, I could use an assistant. Someone with medical training and the right temperament for our particular clientele.”
My heart skips. “An assistant?”
“The work isn’t always straightforward,” he continues. “Bullet wounds, knife injuries, the occasional overdose. People who can’t go to regular hospitals for obvious reasons. It requires discretion, skill, and the ability to work under pressure.”
I glance at Nicky, who’s watching this conversation with growing interest.
“And eventually,” Dr. Torrino adds, “I’ll need a replacement. I’m not getting any younger, and this work is too important to leave to chance. The right person could build quite a career in this field.”
“There wouldn’t be any official qualifications,” I say slowly, thinking through the implications.
Dr. Torrino waves a dismissive hand. “Pieces of paper mean nothing in our world. What matters is competence, trustworthiness, and the ability to keep your mouth shut. You’ve already demonstrated the first, Nicolo vouches for the second, and prison would have taught you the third.”
The possibility spreads through me like warmth. A purpose. A career. Something I could be good at, something that would make me useful rather than just another burden for Nicky to carry.
“I could train you properly,” Dr. Torrino continues. “Advanced first aid, minor surgery, pharmacology. Everything you’d need to handle the situations that arise in our line of work.”
I look at Nicky again, seeking... what? Permission? Approval? Some sign that this wouldn’t complicate our relationship or create problems I haven’t considered?
Nicky catches my look and rolls his eyes. “You don’t need my permission, dufus. This is your decision.”
The casual endearment, the easy affection in his voice, makes my chest tight with emotion. He’s right. I don’t need his permission. But knowing I have his support, knowing he wants me to have this opportunity, makes all the difference.
“I’d love that,” I tell Dr. Torrino, and the words feel like stepping into a future I’d never dared imagine. “When can I start?”
An hour later, we’re walking through the heart of London, and everything feels transformed. Not just by the conversation with Dr. Torrino, though that’s certainly part of it. The entire city seems to sparkle with possibility.
Christmas decorations are everywhere. Twinkling lights strung between lampposts, shop windows dressed in gold and red, the scent of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts drifting from the market stalls that have appeared on seemingly every corner.
London is getting into full swing for the holidays, and the festive atmosphere is infectious.
“I can’t believe it,” I say for probably the tenth time since we left Dr. Torrino’s office. “An actual job. Something I could be good at.”
“You are good at it,” Nicky corrects, his hand warm in mine as we navigate through the crowds of Christmas shoppers. “He wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t think you had real potential.”
We pause at a Christmas market that’s sprung up in one of the small squares, the wooden stalls decorated with garlands and fairy lights, vendors calling out their wares in cheerful voices. The whole scene looks like something from a holiday film, picture-perfect and impossibly romantic.
“This time last year,” I say quietly, “I was in a prison cell wondering if I’d ever see proper Christmas lights again.”
Nicky’s hand tightens in mine.
“Now I’m here with you, looking at a future I actually want to be part of.” I turn to face him properly, taking in his face in the warm glow of the market lights. “I have you, I have a potential career, I have hope. It feels almost too good to be true.”
“It’s not too good,” he says firmly. “It’s what you deserve. What we both deserve.”
I don’t think I deserve it. I never will. But Nicky does, and that’s good enough for me.
A vendor calls out something about hot chocolate, and Nicky raises an eyebrow in question. I nod, and we make our way over to the stall, joining the queue of couples and families and friends all wrapped up in scarves and the general warmth of the season.
The hot chocolate is perfect. Rich and sweet with a hint of cinnamon, served in paper cups that warm our hands as we continue wandering through the market.
Everything feels magical, the lights, the music, the laughter of children running between the stalls, the general sense of joy and anticipation that Christmas brings.
But none of it is as magical as the feeling of Nicky’s hand in mine.
“Thank you,” I say as we pause by a stall selling handmade ornaments.
“For what?” Nicky raises an eyebrow and then shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me for anything.”
“I do!” I protest. “For bringing me here. For supporting the job thing. For not making me feel like I need permission to have my own life.”
“You don’t need to thank me for that. You should have your own life, your own goals, your own sense of purpose. I never wanted to be the only good thing in your world. That’s too much pressure for anyone.”
The honesty of it hits me square in the chest. Because he’s right, I had been making him responsible for my entire emotional well-being, making our relationship carry the weight of my recovery and my happiness and my reason for existing.
Working out at the gym and getting back into a fitness routine was a step in the right direction, but it was never going to be enough.
“I love you,” I tell him, the words coming easily now, without the desperate edge they used to carry. “But you’re right. You can’t be everything for me. That’s not fair to either of us.”
“I love you too,” he says, lifting our joined hands to press a kiss to my knuckles. “And I’m proud of you. For today, for how far you’ve come, for choosing to build something for yourself.”
We continue walking, hot chocolate warming us from the inside while the Christmas lights twinkle overhead. The city moves around us in all its chaotic festive glory, but I feel cocooned in this moment of perfect contentment.
For the longest time, I thought my life was over. Believed the best I could hope for on the outside was to exist quietly on the margins, trying not to cause too much trouble for the people kind enough to tolerate my presence.
Now I’m walking through London at Christmas with the man I love, planning a future that includes meaningful work and genuine purpose and the kind of happiness I’d forgotten was possible.
“Dr. Torrino wants me to start next week,” I say, still hardly able to believe it’s real.
“Perfect timing,” Nicky replies. “Give you something to focus on besides whether I’m coming home safely from work every day.”
I bump his shoulder with mine. “I’ll always worry about that.”
“Good,” he grins. “But now you’ll have your own dangerous situations to worry about too.”
The thought probably should concern me more than it does.
Working as a medic for the mafia will certainly come with risks, late-night emergencies, dangerous patients, the constant need for discretion.
But it also comes with purpose, with the chance to use skills I enjoy, with the opportunity to build something that’s entirely mine.
“Come on,” Nicky says, tugging me toward another row of stalls. “Let’s find you a proper Christmas present. Something to celebrate your new career.”
“You don’t need to buy me anything.”
“I want to. Besides, it’s Christmas. I’m allowed to spoil my boyfriend a little.”
Boyfriend. The word still sends a little thrill through me every time he says it. Like a gift I’m still getting used to unwrapping.
As we disappear into the crowd of Christmas shoppers, hot chocolate in our hands and the future stretching out ahead of us full of possibility, I think about how fundamentally my life has changed.
Not just the external circumstances, the freedom, the safety, the love, but the internal landscape too.
For the first time in years, I’m not just surviving. I’m actually living.
And it feels absolutely magical.