Chapter 3 #2
"You bought the ambulances?" Luke asks, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Mother of God. Do you know how much paperwork that’s going to generate? I have to sign off on the fleet manifests as part of my admin duties.”
"She operates in a gray area between 'legal' and 'so rich laws are merely suggestions'," Preston explains to Luke, patting his arm.
"I needed leverage," Mother says with a shrug. "Do we have a deal?"
I look at Jax. He looks exhausted. He looks like he wants to fight, but he also looks like he knows that fighting Mother is like fighting a hurricane with a tennis racket.
"Venue tours," Jax says, rubbing his face. "In the city. No passports. No horses."
"No horses," Mother agrees. "I have pivoted to structural grandeur."
"She didn't pivot," Preston whispers to me. "She just changed the cage. Be careful, Maxwell. The rat is still in the maze."
"Fine," I say aloud. "We will tour the venues. But I retain veto power on any location that lacks ADA compliant exits or has a decibel rating over eighty."
"See?" Mother smiles, and it is the smile of a predator who has just successfully herded its prey. "I knew you’d see reason. The car is waiting. Preston, your Porsche has already been returned to the Penthouse. Go home. Shower. You smell like heroism and gin."
She turns on her heel and glides away toward the exit, the sea of travelers parting before her as if she is Moses in a pantsuit.
Jax watches her go. He leans his head on my shoulder.
"She’s going to take us somewhere terrible, isn't she?"
“Realistically?” I say. "Yes. The probability is one hundred percent."
Preston snaps his notebook shut. "I give it twenty minutes before she tries to bribe a landmark into changing its zoning laws."
"Tomorrow," Jax sighs, grabbing my hand. "We survive tomorrow. Let’s go."
The black SUV Mother provided is waiting at the curb. It is armour-plated. Of course it is.
We climb in—me and Jax in the middle, Preston and Luke in the back. The interior smells of new leather and oppression. As the driver pulls away from the curb, merging aggressively into the Queens traffic, the silence in the car is heavy.
Jax is vibrating. I can feel it radiating off him. It’s not the happy vibration of adrenaline; it’s the jagged, discordant frequency of a man who realizes he is outgunned.
"We need a strategy," Jax says, staring out the tinted window at the Van Wyck Expressway. "We can't just walk into those tours tomorrow. She’s going to steamroll us. She’s going to show us a ballroom, I’m going to say it’s too big, and she’s going to say she bought the block to knock down the neighbouring buildings for 'sightlines'.
I can't fight that kind of crazy, Max. I fix bullet holes. I don't fix... whatever that is."
"It’s asymmetrical warfare," Preston supplies from the back seat. "She controls the logistics, the funding, and the environment. You are fighting an insurgency against an occupying force."
"Thanks, Preston," Jax snaps. "That’s really helpful. Any clinical advice on how to defeat a dictator?"
"Usually? Revolution," Preston says. "Or waiting for them to die. But Mother eats kale and rage. She’s going to live forever."
Jax turns to me. His eyes are dark with that specific mix of panic and admiration that always makes my heart rate spike.
"Max," Jax says, leaning in. "Use that sexy brain of yours. Look at the data. What are our assets?"
I close my eyes, tracing the familiar comfort of a mental spreadsheet, though the numbers feel useless right now.
"We have leverage," I admit, leaning slightly into his space.
"She needs us for the merger. But we are out of our depth.
You thrive in the chaos, Jax, and I survive on structure.
But Mother doesn't play by either of those rules.
She is a force of nature, and she writes her own weather reports. "
"We need a wall," Jax says. "We need someone she can't buy. Someone she can't bully. Someone who looks at a York and sees a patient, not a paycheck."
He pauses. He sits up straighter.
"I need a Chief of Staff," Jax says. "I need a Warlord. I need someone who runs the floor. Someone who scares the residents. Someone who scares me."
From the back seat, Luke leans forward. He rests his elbows on the centre console. "You’re describing my mother.”
Jax freezes. I freeze.
We both slowly turn around. Luke isn't smiling; he’s perfectly serious.
"Think about it," Luke says, ticking points off on his fingers. "She made a neurosurgeon cry last week because he broke sterile field. She doesn't care about money. She cares about protocol. And she really, really hates it when people are rude."
Jax looks at me. The data points align instantly. Rosa Ortiz. The Head Charge Nurse. The woman who has been running St. Jude’s since before I was an intern. And, crucially, Luke's mother.
"Rosa," we say in unison.
"Mama Ortiz," Luke confirms. "But she’s on shift. It’s Friday night. The ER is going to be a combat zone."
"Exactly," Jax says, tapping on the partition glass. "Driver! Change of plans. We’re not going to the penthouse. Take us to St. Jude’s. Emergency Bay entrance."
"Sir, Mrs. York’s instructions were specifically to—" the driver begins.
"I have a scalpel in my pocket and I know exactly where your femoral artery is," Jax lies smoothly. "St. Jude’s. Now."
The driver makes a hard U-turn.
We arrive at the St. Jude’s Ambulance Bay twenty minutes later. We don't go through the main entrance; we go through the trauma doors.
The ER is, as predicted, a controlled disaster. It is Friday night in New York City. There is a waiting room full of flu cases, a drunk tank full of regrets, and the distinct, high-energy hum of a trauma centre at capacity.
And in the centre of it all, standing behind the charge desk like a captain on the bridge of a battleship, is Rosa Ortiz.
Mama Ortiz is five feet two inches of pure, concentrated authority. She has been the Head Charge Nurse at St. Jude’s for thirty years. She wears scrubs that are perfectly pressed, and her eyeliner is sharp enough to perform an appendectomy.
Currently, she is staring down a six-foot-four orthopedic surgeon who looks like he is about to cry.
"I don't care if you are the King of Bones," Ortiz is saying, her voice cutting through the noise of the ER without shouting.
"You do not discharge Bed 4 until I see the labs.
If you discharge him, and he bounces back, I will make sure your next rotation is entirely rectal exams. Do you understand me? "
The surgeon nods frantically and scurries away.
Ortiz turns back to her computer, typing with ferocious speed. "Next!"
"Hi, Mom," Luke says, stepping up to the desk.
Ortiz continues typing, putting up an authoritative finger which silences Luke. She finishes her sentence, hits enter, and then slowly rotates her chair. Her expression shifts from Tactical Commander to Mother Hen in a microsecond, but it’s a sharp, knowing kind of hen.
"Luke?" she says, scanning him for injury. "You look terrible. You look like you haven't slept in three days. And why are you hanging out with these delinquents?"
She gestures to me and Jax.
"We were hijacked," Jax says, leaning on the high counter. "We tried to elope. Catherine bought the airline."
"I heard," Ortiz says dryly. "The EMTs are taking bets. I have fifty dollars on 'Jax cries'."
"I almost did," Jax admits. "Mama, we need help. She’s forcing us to do venue tours tomorrow. In the city. She has a notebook. A leather one."
Ortiz raises an eyebrow. "And you want me to do what? Perform an exorcism?"
"I need a Chief of Staff," Jax says. "I need someone to look at the contract and tell her it’s garbage. I need someone who isn't afraid of the York name. Luke said... Luke said you’re the only one who can handle her."
Ortiz looks at her son. Luke nods. "She’s a Level One Trauma Event, Mom. You need to triage her."
Ortiz sighs. She picks up her pen—a cheap, hospital-issue Bic—and taps it against the desk.
"I have a shift tomorrow," she says.
"I’ll cover it," Luke says immediately. "I’ll pull the Charge shift. I need the hours anyway."
"You will not let the residents slack off," Ortiz warns. "And if Bed 6 tries to leave AMA, you tackle him."
"I know the drill, Mom," Luke says, leaning heavily against the counter. "Go. Save them."
"I can pull rank," I interject. "I am the Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery. I can authorize an administrative leave day for 'Consulting’, the hospital Admin team can’t say no to a York.”
Ortiz looks at me. "You’re offering me a paid day off to go yell at your mother?"
"Essentially," I say. "Yes."
"That’s not enough," Ortiz says, crossing her arms. "Catherine York is a hazard to public health. I need Hazard Pay."
"Name it," Jax says. "Anything. I’ll buy you a car. I’ll buy you a condo in Boca."
"I don't want a condo," Ortiz says. "I want the break room."
"The... break room?" Jax asks.
"The nurses' break room on the 4th floor," Ortiz says. "The coffee machine tastes like battery acid and despair. The couch smells like 1985. The lighting makes us all look like corpses."
"Done," Jax says. "I’ll buy a new Keurig."
"No," Preston interrupts.
He steps forward from where he was leaning against the vending machine. He looks at Ortiz with professional respect.
"A Keurig is insufficient for a woman of your stature, Ms. Ortiz," Preston says smoothly.
"If we are doing this, we are doing it properly.
I will gut the room. Italian marble countertops.
A La Marzocco espresso machine—dual boiler, obviously.
I will hire a barista. His name will be Fabio.
He will have a ponytail and he will not speak English, he will only speak Coffee. "
Ortiz looks at Preston. Her eyes widen slightly.
"Massage chairs?" she asks.
"Zero-gravity heated recliners with shiatsu function," Preston confirms. "And I will have the lighting redone by a theatrical designer. You will look radiant."
Ortiz stares at Preston. Then she smiles. It is a slow, satisfied smile.
"I like the spare," she says to Luke. "He has taste."
"He really does," Luke agrees weakly.
"Wait," Preston says, holding up a finger. "But if I do this, Mama… we need to discuss the Dignity Box."
Jax chokes on a laugh. Luke covers his face with both hands, groaning into his palms.
Ortiz’s smile turns razor-sharp. "The Dignity Box stays, Preston."
"It was one time," Preston argues, his composure cracking just slightly. "And the box was all I could find. Keeping that flattened Breville box in your locker is extortion."
"It’s insurance," Ortiz corrects him. "I’ll take the espresso machine, Dr. York. And I’ll take the massage chairs. But the box remains in my custody until I retire. It reminds me that even Yorks have... what was it? Conical burrs?"
Preston turns a violent shade of red. "It makes excellent espresso," he mutters, defeated.
"Deal," Ortiz agrees.
She turns back to me.
"And," she adds, pointing a finger at my chest. "I want veto power on the menu. If I see a single 'deconstructed' taco, or anything that requires a geometric explanation to eat, I am flipping the table."
"Granted," I say. "I prefer my food to be identifiable matter anyway."
"And one more thing," Ortiz says, her eyes narrowing. She looks at Preston again. "You’re coming with me. You’re the shrink. You handle the silence. I handle the noise. When she tries to gaslight them, you call it out. We pincer her."
Preston smiles, regaining his cool. "I believe that strategy has merit. Count me in."
Ortiz nods. She stands up and smooths down her scrubs.
"Alright," she says. "0800 hours. Pick me up. And tell your mother to wear comfortable shoes. Because if she tries to march me through a botanical garden in heels, I will leave her in the compost heap."
Jax exhales, a long, shuddering breath. He reaches across the counter and grabs Ortiz’s hand.
"Thank you, Mama."
"Don't get mushy on me, O’Connell," Ortiz warns, pulling her hand back but smiling warmly at him. "And you," she points to Luke. "Don't let the interns kill anyone."
"I got this, Mom," Luke says.
We turn to leave, walking back toward the ambulance bay doors. The weight on my chest feels lighter. The variables have shifted. We have acquired an asset.
As we push through the doors into the cool night air of New York City, Jax turns to me. He is grinning.
"Did you see that?" Jax asks. "We just drafted a Warlord."
"We did," I agree. "The probability of survival has just increased to fifty-five percent."
"Does anyone else feel like we just made a deal with the devil?" Jax whispers, glancing back at the automatic doors as if he expects them to bite him.
"No," I correct him. "The devil negotiates for souls. Rosa negotiated for Italian marble and indefinite blackmail rights over my brother's genitals. This was significantly more expensive."
"Right," Jax shudders. "Good point."
"I’ll take those odds," Jax says. He opens the car door. "Hey, Max?"
"Yes?"
"If we survive this," Jax says, looking at me with serious intent, "I’m having waffles every day on our honeymoon, got it?"
"I would like that," I say.
We climb into the back of the armoured SUV. The war for the wedding is on. But for the first time since brunch, I think we might actually win.