Chapter Violet #2
I rise, giving her time to pull me back if she still needs my comfort.
She seems strong enough. I grab a few tissues from a box and hand them to her.
Daintily, she wipes at her eyes, and that's when I see it.
Them. Bruises. Painstakingly covered up by artfully applied makeup, now visible thanks to the deluge of tears.
I narrow my eyes, "Who did this to you?"
Alarm spreads over her face, and her head lowers. "It's nothing. Nobody hurt me. I fell off a horse." She rises from the chair.
Luciano rises too, takes her chin into his hand, and forces her to look up at him. "Marcello won't be happy seeing this."
"It's nothing, really," she tries to laugh, but it's raspy and fake. "Like I said, I just fell off a horse."
"If that's the case, you should be checked out. I can—"
She interrupts me with real panic in her eyes now, "That's not necessary. I'm fine."
"Sophia?" A man calls, entering.
I'm starting to feel like I'm part of a really, really bad mafia soap opera.
The man who enters is just as tall as Luciano.
His hair is blonde, and his face looks like one of those movie star faces.
Handsome as hell. But there is a mean streak around his sneer-curled lips, and his eyes are cold.
They betray his boyish good looks, making him appear more like a predator.
"Roberto," Sophia says, pressing the tissue against her face. "My husband, Roberto Giordano," she explains.
"I told you to wait for me." Roberto steps over to her, grabbing her elbow. "You shouldn't be here alone." Alarmed, I watch his large hand on her fragile body. She looks like a swan caught by a lion.
"I didn't want to distract you. You're so busy." Her voice is low and tiny. Subservient.
I've seen domestic abuse victims often enough to recognize when I see one.
Anger flares inside me against this man.
I can't stand people who beat on someone weaker.
Unfortunately, I've dealt with enough of them to know that there is nothing I can say or do right now.
Roberto leads her out of the room, and she throws one more despondent look at her brother before they're gone.
I stare at Luciano, "Do you think…" I don't elaborate.
His face turns dark, and he balls his fist. He nods, "Marcello will put an end to it."
"He will?" I can't help but ask.
"You bet your ass he will," Luciano nods, watching me when I walk to Marcello's bed to pick up the jewelry that's still lying there. I hold it out to him.
"Will you see to it that she gets this back?"
He takes the pieces and nods.
The next morning, I feel a little bit better.
Mom called me last night. She got the whole family to go to the lake house with her.
It's easy for Lee, Sebastian, and Elaine.
They can all work/study from their laptops.
Mom had to call in sick, but since she never does, she's not going to lose her job over it.
At least I don't have to worry about them.
Me? If I'm being honest, yes, I'm scared.
This is a whole new experience for me. But I don't want any other nurse to go through what my family and I are going through.
They might not have the resources to leave town.
It sounds heroic, but it really isn't. That's just me justifying my behavior to myself.
I'm acting like the movie heroine who is about to walk down the basement stairs without turning the lights on.
So why am I tempted to go down the stairs?
The honest answer is that I've never met a man who intrigues me as much as my new patient does, even unconscious. It's more than a Florence Nightingale calling to help people. Something about him draws me in and makes me want to see this through until he is released.
As I enter my patient's room, Luciano gets up from the chair he has been sitting in, and from the looks of it, spent the night in, holding out a cup of coffee to me.
The label says it's from the shop downstairs, made just the way I like it, with five packets of sugar and an equal amount of vanilla creamer.
The fine hairs at the back of my neck stand up.
This man not only knows where my family lives and what they're doing for a living, but he also went down to the coffee shop and found out my favorite coffee. And God knows what else.
"Got you something."
Instead of fear, though, anger rushes through me. He sure has nerve. Yesterday he threatened my family, and today he's trying to bribe me with coffee? I cross my arms over my chest. "You threatened my family, Luciano. Coffee is not going to make up for this."
"I heard Lake Hiawatha is especially beautiful this time of the year." He says, with a grin, still holding out the damn coffee to me.
My heart nearly stops. How in the world does he know about that place?
"Please don't hurt them," I plead.
"Not as long as you do your job right, sweetheart." He winks. He would be handsome in a roguish way if his eyes weren't as cold as a shark. He shakes the coffee, and I take it with trembling hands. Unwilling to bait him.
"How did we do last night?" I ask, trying hard to sound chipper, and to ignore the fear and anger he inspires in me.
The sound of an alarm on Marcello's monitor cuts off whatever Luciano was about to say, and I rush over, turning the alarm off, while my eyes fly over the readouts. "It's okay. His blood pressure just spiked a little."
I open up the flow to his beta blocker slightly to allow more medicine to enter his body and watch as his numbers go down.
It's all good, just like I said. His blood pressure spiked; that happens, especially with patients with a headwound as serious as his.
But I can't stop my eyes from roaming his still form on the bed.
His olive skin looks pale on the white bed linen; he's calling to me in a way no other patient ever has before.
It's unsettling. I check the line connected to his hand to make sure the flow is good.
The tips of my fingers brush against his flesh, and a shiver moves through me.
His knuckles are bruised, as if he had been in a fight recently, sending another quiver through me, reminding me that his world and mine are not only a million miles apart, but that our moral compasses are polar opposite.
And yet… I'm not sure if it's the hint of danger in the air around him that attracts me, or my nursing instincts.
But the fact of the matter is that I've never touched a patient in an unprofessional manner like that before.
I'm not even wearing gloves. Shit. What the hell is the matter with me?
The thought of quitting, like my mom suggested, enters my mind; it sure would be the sensible thing to do.
But right now, all I'm feeling is a suicidal stubbornness rushing through me.
I'll be damned if I let this asshole intimidate me.
Part of me is aware that right now, I'm no longer looking down the horror movie basement stairs; I've already started my way down.
My thoughts are interrupted by a loud booming voice, echoing through the ICU wing and startling patients enough to set off several monitors, "How is he? How is my son?"
"Mr. Orsi." Luciano nearly jumps out of his shoes.
"Where are the fucking doctors?" The massive man who enters yells.
Slowly, in my mind, I take a few steps backward on those stairs, because this man is not a charismatic, unconscious man, who may or may not be in the mafia.
This man is a cold-blooded killer, none other than Carlos Orsi himself.
Even if I hadn't recognized him from his trial on TV, the family resemblance is undeniable: black hair, over six feet tall, olive skin, but that's where the similarities end.
Where Marcello's cheeks are gaunt, his father's are rounded and puffed out.
Jowls hang over a double chin, and at least a hundred and fifty extra pounds pad his frame, leaving him huffing.
"I'll get the doctor on shift," I say, trying to get by the massive man. I just want out of this room now. This man scares me more than Luciano.
Strong fingers grab my upper arm in an iron grip. "Who are you?"
"That's Violet, Marcello's nurse," Luciano introduces me. I could be wrong, but there seems to be a hard strain in his voice. When I look over, his jaws are clenched tightly.
"Excuse me," I say, trying to free my arm from the man's grip, sure I'll have marks on it tomorrow.
He turns me around, forcing me to face him. His blue eyes pierce mine. "Get him."
He shoves me forward, finally letting go of my arm. The urge to rub the spot where he held me is hard to resist, but my anger is spiking. "That was highly inappropriate."
"Get. The. Doctor. Or I'll show you highly inappropriate, little miss bedpan jockey."
My face flushes in barely contained anger, but before I can say anything, Luciano chimes in, "Violet, please."
I take a deep breath, summoning my composure and work ethic, before I nod and rush out of the room. I'm not being paid enough for this shit.
I page Doctor Waspo, who is thankfully on call today. He has been Marcello's doctor since he was brought in. He is also one of the best brain surgeons in the country.
From inside Marcello's room, the sound of raised voices drifts out. One of the other ICU nurses pokes her head out of her room and gives me a sharp look. Right. That's my room. I need to get control of this.
"… took you long enough," Luciano finishes his sentence when I enter.
"You little shit, can't tell me—"
"Excuse me," I say sharply, interrupting whatever Mr. Orsi was about to say.
I close the sliding glass door, hoping it will drown out the noise.
"I'm really sorry your son has been injured, and I understand your concern, but this is the ICU wing.
If you can't quiet down, I will be forced to ask you to leave. "
For good measure, I fold my arms across my chest.
Mr. Orsi swings around surprisingly swiftly for a man of his size. His eyes take me in from head to toe. "Do you have any idea who you are talking to?"
"A father aggrieved over his son's condition," I state, much braver than I feel. But dammit, I'm not letting this pompous ass intimidate me—or at least I'll be damned if I show it.
"Why hasn't this wing been emptied?" Orsi's scorn turns on Luciano, dismissing me like a pesky gnat.
"The patients here are in critical condition; there was no room any—"
"Do I look like I give a shit?" Orsi yells.
"Sir, please. I will call security if—" I can't finish my sentence because the man throws his head back and laughs. He laughs so hard that tears run down his fat cheeks.
"Priceless," he huffs after a moment. Then his features turn stern again. "How about I have your throat slit, or would you rather be trafficked?"
"Mr. Orsi," Luciano interjects sharply.
My knees feel like they're about to buckle.
His threat isn't idle. I can physically feel it, read the truth of his statement in his eyes.
He probably wouldn't even think twice about it.
Thrown off balance by his violent nature, I take a step back.
Nobody has ever threatened me before—except Luciano, but compared to Orsi, his threat was almost civilized.
"Good morning, I'm Doctor Waspo. I'm in charge of your son." I've never been so happy to see Waspo in my life as I am when he opens the sliding door.
Orsi's ire turns on him. "Nobody besides me is in charge of my son." He thunders.
"I'm sorry, sir, of course not. I meant I'm in ch— I'm responsible for your son's recovery." Waspo straightens his white coat and holds out his hand when he's done.
Orsi stares at it as if it were something contagious, before his lips curl in derision. "I want Doctor VanHolm."
Doctor VanHolm is the leading brain surgeon in the country.
"I'm sorry, sir. Doctor VanHolm is on medical leave, but I have trained under him, and I can assure you—"
Orsi grabs him by the throat. A small cry escapes my lips, and I turn to the door to call security, but Luciano steps in my way, shaking his head at me.
What the fuck? What have I gotten myself into?
I'm basically running up those basement stairs toward the light now.
Shit. Mom was right. This is dangerous. I'm a nurse for crying out loud.
If I had wanted to live dangerously, I would have joined the military.
"You will assure me, you little prick. That is my only living son," Orsi snarls into Waspo's face. "You will call me every day with updates, do you understand?"
Waspo's face is turning a shade of purple, but he manages to nod.
I'm not sure what I think I might accomplish, but I move to interfere, worried Orsi will choke Waspo to death.
Again, Luciano steps in my way, shaking his head.
My hands ball into fists, and anger churns my belly.
I can't stand by and watch a man being killed.
Just as a tortured choking sound that raises goosebumps all over my body escapes him, Orsi lets Waspo go. "You better pray my son makes it."
With that and without getting the medical update he demanded, he leaves the room.
Waspo is on his knees, holding his throat. Rasping sounds escape his lips while his lungs try to pull in air through his damaged throat. Luciano finally steps out of my way, and I rush to the doctor's side.
"What's wrong with you people?" I snarl at Luciano, who barely looks at me. I like to think it's because part of him is ashamed.