Chapter 10
COLLINS
Death haunted me as a child. I rarely slept after I was diagnosed, forced to live in the hospital for months, alone with my thoughts. I knew if I closed my eyes, they might never reopen.
Which only prepared me for my lessons with Pops.
The pat-pat-pat of blood and the cold smell of metal, flashes in my memory as the harsh commands of my father echo in my mind. My breaths halt. Not now, not here. I run up to my senior resident and the three medical students in my class, steeling my spine.
Ignoring the memories never helps. I always feel dirty—tarnished after they surface. It’s why I show the world the mask that allowed me to survive Pops’ world. The mask that hides my broken pieces, the festered wounds that have warped me into something unrecognizable.
Dr. Dillon gestures to the gurney, a white cloth covering the deceased, unaware of my inner drama.
“Deceased,” he begins. “Came in last night complaining of a stomach ache. Any guesses?”
The two women share a look, their brows furrowed. Dillon always does this, piques our interests, before giving us all the facts. He wants us thinking like doctors, not just acting like ones with recited knowledge.
I might understand it, but it’s frustrating after the night I’ve had. I’ve yet to explain to Hayes what happened—why I did it.
Franklin, a tall and skinny man a few years my senior, points to the body. “Appendicitis.”
I know he’s wrong by Dillon’s reaction. His lips always flicker as if he’ll frown before correcting into a gentle, patient smile.
I got exceptionally good at spotting tells with my father, anticipating his moods by the way he walked in the house or how his keys sounded when he came home. I survived by anticipating his moods.
My psych professor would remind me that it’s a trauma response, but I didn’t do very well in his class—only a B.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Think, people. We’re in Boston. There are all kinds of things in the city, in the daily grind. What could have happened?”
My mind whirls, possible scenarios and thoughts swirling together. I raise my hand quickly.
“Drug smuggling,” I answer, biting my lip, eyes unfocused. Dillon gestures for me to explain. “Boston is a known hot bed of criminal activity. Drugs come into the port. She could have had some stowed on her person, it opened, and too much killed her.”
“You assume it’s a woman?”
I sigh tiredly, looking at the white sheet. “It’s always a woman. Women are used more frequently than men. Forced into it by love or labor. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“I guess you would know a little about that.” Dillion winks, but my blood runs cold at the insinuation. “And you’re right. There was a massive amount of cocaine in her system. We did an autopsy and found the baggie in her stomach.”
“How were they supposed to get that out?” Franklin asks, peachy face turning green, staring at the sheet.
“They never expected her to live,” I say casually, shrugging as if the point is moot.
And it is. It’s a way of life in the families and the clan.
It’s sad, but there’s no use in being upset.
“They put it inside her with the intention of killing her later. It’s common for bodies they want to get rid of. ”
Bruno was known for doing it to his old playthings. My fingers urge to remove the sheet, and see who lay beneath it. Would it be one of the girls from the club, one that I stitched up?
My stomach rolls. Damn. Did I do this? Condemn someone to death for trying to appease my self-induced guilt?
I shake myself. No. Roman did. And Maeve was thinking of marrying me off to that man?
Not happening.
“You sure know a lot about it,” Franklin muses, brown eyes piercing.
One of the women, Charlotte, snorts. Her thick blonde braid is always so perfect, so opposite of my wild red-brown locks. “Duh, of course. It’s no secret that her father was in that world.”
Glaring over at her, I say, “Allegedly. He was never convicted.”
It was a poorly held secret in Boston. Ferguson O’Brien was known for his shady dealings. He was never convicted though, even if the papers loved to speculate about him.
The women snicker together and my cheeks heat. My sisters were never the butt of jokes, but I was. I had no way of defending myself—too thin, too sickly.
I had to just take the bullies' abuse. Unless someone interfered. Usually, it was Hayes. Another reason for my superficial, highly laughable crush. He always defended me to those who tried to pick on me.
“Right.” She nods, as if we’ve shared a secret. “How are your sisters?”
My fists clench. My sisters, both in the criminal underworld, were a low blow.
I could fight with my sisters, curse them out, but no one else could.
“Charlotte,” Dillon interrupts, pulling the sheet back as rage hisses in my gut, a snake wanting to bite. I have to gulp down air to stop from doing something stupid with a scalpel. “Would you do the honor of grabbing us masks?”
Seeing as how Boston Mass General is a teaching hospital, we know we’re to inspect and learn. Already, I can see my fellow medical students wavering, pale faces flushing green with nausea.
Dillon knows it too. He hands me a pair of pliers, and gestures to the body. “You’ll be my hands today.”
Like I am every day. I can’t tell if it’s favoritism, or because I’m the only one that doesn’t get squeamish over dead bodies.
Either way, I need good karma. I’m so close to finishing, with the board exam right around the corner.
Just after my first year of my residency, I can take my final exam and truly be a doctor.
The buzz of excitement—of finally being done—heats my palms.
Grabbing the precut flaps of skin, I pull the chest cavity open, the peeling flesh making a wet suction noise. Franklin looks away, gagging and I know he’s two seconds from running to the trash.
“See? There.” Dillon points to the cavity, where remains of a plastic bag sit. The coroner must have known we’d be looking at this body, and left the source so we could see it firsthand. “A small baggie. There’s still white residue.”
Leaning back, I look into the woman’s peaceful face, hands slightly shaking.
It’s lined with wrinkles and track marks, her dark hair thin.
I can see the healing marks of a bruise around her left eye, another one around her temple.
She’d be beaten, that’s obvious. Whoever owned her left their calling card all over her body.
There’s a small part of me that knows this should upset me. That I should be like my colleagues, hunting for a trash can, feeling sadness over a life lost. It’s horrible to see someone dead and be picking them apart for science.
But I don’t. They didn’t have my father. Any trace of compassion for the dead, or dying was wiped clean with his lessons.
“Shit!”
All five of us turn, catching my sister Sloane with adorable pregnant belly, standing in the doorway. Mouth open, her flaming red hair is bright in the stark, white cold morgue. What the hell is she doing down here?
Releasing the corpse’s skin, I peel my gloves off, rushing to her side. I don’t bother looking at anyone else. “What are you doing here?”
My little sister doesn’t take her eyes off the dead body. I’m not sure how she’d handle seeing a corpse; the Sloane I grew up with didn’t like anything gross, and was kept out of the family business. Now that she was a wife to the De Luca Capo, did her tolerance change? Did she see things?
Snapping my fingers, I tug her to the elevators, and make her look at me. “Hey, are you okay?”
Sloane’s mouth fails for a minute before she blinks.
Even five months pregnant, she’s still beautiful, glowing from the inside out.
Her signature ruby lips are freshly glossed, and her red nails painted.
The green sweater dress is comfortable, fashionable, and the heels are high, just the way she likes it.
In comparison, I’m in drab blue scrubs and a pair of white sneakers. Not very cute.
“I know her,” she whispers, looking back to the closed doors that hide the dead body. “Like know her.”
“Who is she?”
Sloane’s eyes widen. “She’s Roman’s number one.”
My shoulders drop, defeated.
Roman’s number one. The woman who only he could touch and he made sure everyone knew it.
You would think that’d be a place of honor, offer protection, but it just made you an easier target.
Bruno used his women violently, forcing them to do what he wanted, and when he grew bored, he got rid of them.
Crossing my arms, I sigh. “What’s her name?”
“Her real name? No clue.” She snorts. “Roman just called her Jaconda.”
Pushing my glasses up my nose, I nod. “Great, thank you for telling me. At least we can give her a name. Why are you here?”
“Lunch date.” She gestures to the doors, their sleek silver a perfect mirror.
I avoid looking at them. Today isn’t a good day for my mental health, not after all the shit at home with Maeve and poor sleep.
If I see something I don’t like—which is plausible—I’ll have a panic attack.
“Upstairs said today was a short day. Just rounds and then you’re free. ”
“Rounds and then I’m in the ER, Sloaney.
” I pinch my brow, trying not to show my disappointment.
Sloane’s living the life she always wanted—full of power and freedom.
She thinks everyone is on her schedule, and should be able to drop their responsibilities to do what she wants.
She’s always been that way. “I still have things to do.”
“Alright then a quick break.” She pushes the button beside us. “There’s a café in the main lobby. We’ll get some coffee.”
“You’re not supposed to have caffeine,” I remind her, looking at her stomach.
Twin boys, she just got the news last week.
Sloane’s having two children whereas I’ll never have one.