31. Sara
Sara
“I don’t get why I can’t have one.” Marco glares at the drink carriers balanced in his hands as if they’ve personally offended him.
I scoff as we stop outside the clinic. “Are you a tired and overworked medical professional?”
He cocks his head. “I’m not a medical professional, though I am tired. But I bet the woman I was with last night would have played sexy nurse if I’d asked.”
Rolling my eyes, I wait for him to open the clinic door. “TMI. And you’re hungover, not exhausted. There’s a difference.”
Monday is my day to bring coffee, and the others swarm at the sight of the steaming cups. Marco stalks away, defeated, as I set my things on the lone desk and get started with what has become my newest routine.
The clinic is a sterile white area that spreads over half the third floor, with staff bedrooms occupying the other half. Walls were knocked down to accommodate a dozen or so patient beds, and the sunlight flowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows brightens the room with much-needed warmth.
A tiny office space in the back homes the medical charts, books, and prescription pads. They burn the physical records once a patient is released, so I file a mental note to sift through paperwork before my shift ends.
Ever since Dante began his more…hands on interrogations to root out the mole, work has been piling up for everyone. No one is spared his attention either. He worked his way through every guard and staff member in the house and then widened his circle to include suspects Luca brought in.
When Dante informed me that Jackon had died from his injuries, the news came as a shock. I could have sworn his injuries weren’t severe enough to kill him. I can accept being wrong, but the outcome still stings. Losing a patient always does.
The day wears on as usual. The chef, Gino, suffered a third-degree burn while making cornetti for breakfast, so I get him treated and let him relax in one of the beds while he gives his sous chef strict orders about lunch preparations.
After that, I follow up with a guard who suffered a bullet to the lateral aspect of his lower calf.
His injury, like Dante’s, contained a clean entrance and exit wound, so his recovery was quick and easy.
I change out his dressings for fresh ones and, once he’s settled with water and pain meds, I update his paperwork while Angela and a nurse named Jasmine tend to the trickle of new arrivals.
The hours fly by as we help with everything from fevers to foot pain to tinnitus.
Near the end of my shift, two guards haul another into the clinic.
His name is Perez, and this is his second trip to the fifth floor within a week.
He’s been beaten to a pulp…Dante’s handiwork.
His eyes won’t focus, he’s delirious and muttering to himself, and he has a concerning contusion on his temple.
We don’t possess the necessary equipment to diagnose—let alone treat—a potential brain bleed, which means he may require hospitalization.
Dammit, Dante.
Perez groans, and the guards hold him down so I can administer a sedative into his upper arm.
“No more! Please stop! I-I don’t know anything, I swear.
” When his voice cracks, I peer down at him in alarm.
He thinks he’s still upstairs with Dante.
I ignore the tight knot forming in my stomach while Jasmine and I assess his airway, breathing, and circulation.
After we’ve gathered the relevant supplies, the sedation kicks in and the man calms enough for us to get him in a supine position on a bed.
I’m stitching his head closed when Perez bends over the side to vomit onto the floor, a clear sign of concussion at the very least. Shit.
I meet Angela’s eyes, and she nods before rushing away to find Luca.
He and Marco will have to arrange a way to get Perez to the hospital and conjure up a convincing cover story for what happened to him.
Once Jasmine and I have stabilized him as much as possible and he’s comfortable and still, I step back, my breathing coming in quick gasps.
“Are you okay?” Jasmine’s onyx eyes dim at my probably less than reassuring smile.
“I’m just….I’m going to go get some air.”
I’m hurrying for the door before she has a chance to reply. Weaving around the beds, I shove open the curtain that serves as a partition. My heart is beating in my throat as I tear off my mask and gloves, tossing them in the trash on my way out the door.
Those, too, will be burned later. We can’t leave evidence lying around when the cops might decide to raid the place at any moment. I unleash a half-hysterical laugh. It’s impossible to forget what’s happening here when I’m treating the victims of Dante’s unhinged wrath.
When I became a nurse, I took an oath to help people, but here I am instead, aiding the man causing the damage.
The thought hitches my breath, and I press a hand against the wall as I fight off an intense wave of anxiety.
My nails find my inner wrists and drag along the skin.
The sting and the repetitive motion give me an anchor, but it’s still another minute before I gain control.
“Don’t run off like that, Sara. You’ll give me a heart attack.” Angela appears behind me, hooking her arm through mine. “Marco will kill me if he finds out I left you alone out here. Jasmine said you looked upset. You want to talk about it?”
I decline the offer with a head shake. Ever since the night of the attack, Angela and my interactions have seemed strained. I tell myself to give her grace for disappearing on me. Maybe the townhouse siege spooked her more than I originally believed, despite how cool she seemed most of the time.
She exhales loudly before pivoting us back in the direction of the clinic.
Our arm-in-arm march reminds me of Mount Dinaric and how we used to return to the nurses’ station following a break.
Neither of us was ever in a hurry to jump into work again after sharing a stress-free fifteen minutes of laughter and camaraderie.
The yearning for those days, for simpler times, almost cracks me wide open.
After a long moment of quiet shuffling, Angela hesitates just outside the clinic’s entrance. “I never got a chance to apologize for the day those assholes broke into the house.”
I rear back. “Apologize for what?”
Angela shifts, uncomfortable. “For leaving you. You’re my best friend, and I got scared and bailed without you.”
With her simple admission, all the weirdness between us dissipates like dust in the wind. I bump her with my shoulder. “Don’t be stupid. We were under siege. What were you going to do? Create a diversion? Show them your boobs?”
She chuckles, and the tightness in her shoulders eases. “That only worked one time in Miami on spring break, like, a million years ago.” She smirks. “I did get us out of paying for those tequila sunrises, though.”
I snicker at the memory. “See? You’ve always been a master of distraction. We should do that again. Not the topless tequila thing. Miami. Or the Bahamas. You know…get away for a while. After all this.”
I swallow past the lump clogging my throat, and the amusement fades from Angela’s expression too.
“How do you do it, Ang? How do you…survive this life? For every step forward, I’m yanked three steps back. I can’t seem to keep up with any of you.”
Angela inhales sharply through her nose before exhaling and pulling me the rest of the way into the clinic. “You’ll be fine.” Angela pats my arm in a gesture that almost strikes me as condescending. “You’ve just gotta learn to embrace the chaos.”
If anything, her answer leaves me feeling even more out of my depth. I don’t embrace chaos…I survive it by the skin of my teeth. Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be good enough this time around.
With a heaviness in my chest, and more unsure of myself and my place here than ever before, I return to Perez to prepare him for transport. Luca helps me guide the injured guard downstairs and out the side entrance where Gregor waits with his car.
Once the black vehicle disappears around the corner, I resolve to finish out my shift with my head held high.
So maybe I’m not some badass mafioso. Maybe I’m the woman who almost pees her pants when facing down a pointed gun.
I’m still a damn good nurse, and if that’s what Dante needs right now, that’s exactly what I’ll be.
When I return upstairs, Angela and Jasmine are changing sheets and restocking bedside supplies for the night shift.
Jasmine’s teasing Angela about getting friendly with someone named Roberto, and then their conversation devolves into a boisterous discussion about the latest episode of Love Island.
Leaving them to it, I head into the small back office to make myself useful.
Sinking into a chair, I sort through the stack of abandoned paperwork in peaceful silence, skimming the pages before feeding them into the shredder next to the water cooler.
Once that’s full, the shredded pieces will be burned in the furnace.
I asked Angela why we bother with shredding everything if it all ends up as ash anyway, and she explained that Dante prefers us to be thorough.
Makes sense. Dante is nothing if not thorough. In all things.
As I flip through the pages, a name catches my eye.
Jackson Reed. Deceased.
Frowning, I flip through his file and read meticulously typed notes about excessive blood loss and hypovolemic shock.
It doesn’t make any sense. I stood in that room—or more like, hung there—during the man’s torture. Dante may have roughed him up, sure, but he didn’t inflict enough damage to cause fatal internal bleeding.
I continue thumbing through the report for several more minutes to see if I missed anything.
Nothing.
Goosebumps erupt on my arms.
A few missing teeth and fingernails and mild concussion don’t mesh with internal bleeding…which implies that Jackson Reed died because someone killed him.
With a racing heart, I struggle to recall Luca transporting him to the clinic. This happened just before the museum benefit. Who was on duty? Was this an accident or murder? Or am I overthinking things?
My vision swims, and despite other possible explanations, my gut screams sabotage. This lead of Dante’s was cooperating.
Did the mole kill Jackson?
I snatch the paper detailing Jackson’s death out of his file and stuff it into the back pocket of my scrubs to show to Dante. But first, I want to log in to the computer at the front of the clinic and check the schedules for the guards and nurses from last week.
The door to the office cracks open just as I stick Reed’s file at the bottom of the pile, and Angela pokes her head in. “Marco’s here.”
Based on her strange look, my expression must be off, so I mutter some excuse about a headache and rush out. Too dangerous to drag her into this mess.
I stall at the intake station under the guise of needing to check my schedule.
As my fingers fly across the keys to bring up the employee rosters from the day Jackson was pronounced dead, Marco leans against the wall, waggling his eyebrows at Jasmine.
To her credit, the nurse just rolls her eyes and waves at me before venturing back to the patient bay.
When I discover the previous week’s schedule was already archived and hidden from anyone lacking level four administrative clearance, I grit my teeth over the dead end and resolve to ask Dante.
Later that evening, my temples throb as I focus on decoding Enzo’s letter from the night of the Conti’s gala. I’ve read the words so many times that they’re beginning to blur together.
Two quotes without any context at all.
“And I, John, heard and saw these things. And, after I had heard and seen, I fell down, so as to adore before the feet of the Angel, who was revealing these things to me.” – Revelation 22:8
“Now at times an Angel of the Lord would descend into the pool, and so the water was moved. And whoever descended first into the pool, after the motion of the water, he was healed of whatever infirmity held him.” – John 5:4
When Dante first read them, he paused and cocked his head thoughtfully to one side.
“Huh.”
I studied his pensive expression. “What’s up? Figure out anything?”
He hesitated, then laughed it off. “Not really. I just remembered that ‘John’ is the English equivalent of ‘Giovanni.’”
I frowned. “Do you know anyone named Giovanni? Someone who might be working with Enzo?”
Dante poked his tongue in his cheek. “No. No one comes to mind.”
Besides the religious connection between Dante’s Creation of Adam tattoo and the nature of the quotes themselves, we have nothing to go on. My brain hurts from all my futile attempts to unlock some hidden meaning, so when he enters the room, I’m happy for the distraction.
After he kisses me hello, I shove the crinkled paper into his hand. “What exactly am I looking at, tesoro?”
I tap the top of the sheet. “Proof that the mole may have been a guard or member of the medical team on duty when Jackson Reed died.”