Chapter VIOLET
The next day…
I usually work four twelve-hour shifts a week, but in some cases, like this, I only go home for eight hours to shower, eat, and sleep.
I feel guilty leaving Felix, my cat, all alone for this long, but he's used to it by now.
I'm still a bit mad over Mom not taking him, but she claims she's allergic, so it was probably asking too much.
Still, when I return to the hospital after my eight-hour break, Luciano looks at me as if I have somehow betrayed him and his boss.
"The night nurse was a nightmare, again," he complains.
So, we're just not going to talk about what happened yesterday?
I'm about to say something to that effect when I realize he's not alone.
I give the other man a cursory glance. With his slicked black hair, green eyes, body to kill for—or body to kill—and his expensive-looking, tailored suit, he looks like another mob boss. Wonderful.
Wordlessly, I turn to check Marcello's vitals, adjust his medicine, and mumble to myself that Luciano is right—the night nurse dropped the IV antibiotics too quickly; she is an idiot.
I was close to calling in my resignation this morning. Should probably have done so. If I were in my right mind, I would have. Mr. Orsi truly and honestly scared me yesterday. And this isn't just about me. Luciano, even if he is markedly less scary, threatened my family.
I never thought these kinds of people existed in real life.
Wrote it off as something the movies made up.
Now I know better, and I'm still here. I can make up all the excuses I want, like I don't want any other nurse to go through what I did yesterday, but…
in all honesty… I can't seem to stay away from my patient.
Even in a coma, he draws me in like no man ever has. I want to see him when he opens his eyes. I want to talk to him, hoping that whatever romantic fantasies I have about him will pop the moment he opens his mouth. He's probably just like his father. That would be a blessing.
I like my job. I really do. I've never wanted to be anything but a nurse—until I got hooked on the home renovation shows.
I always came to work with a light step, and I've always been happy to be here, but these past few days?
I can barely stand being at home, not seeing him, imagining what the night nurse might do wrong this time.
I'm aware that I'm obsessing over a man I don't even know.
No, that's not true; I know some, and everything I do know about him should send me running screaming for the woods.
Instead, I'm here. Again. Realizing the knot in my back that has been there all night is slowly loosening now that I'm here with him.
"So, we're not talking this morning?" Luciano holds out the coffee to me.
"You can't buy me with that." I snarl.
He lifts his hands, nearly spilling the liquid gold I am pining for despite my words.
"I'm not trying to buy you." He assures me. "I do want you high functioning, though." He grins, holding the coffee out again.
One of the machines beeps shrilly. The IV must be done.
Ignoring Luciano and his coffee, I walk over to turn the IV off for now.
On my way, I notice a little rash forming underneath Marcello's head wrap.
I stop and adjust the bandage to rest over his hair instead of his skin.
While I'm at it, I can't help but notice how warm his skin is.
Not feverish, just a healthy temperature.
Neither can I help but keep my gaze lingering at the arch of his dark brows.
I'm sure they add another layer of menacing or arrogance to his expression when he's awake.
Once again, the urge to look into his eyes, to see him animated, rises strong inside me.
A tiny scar splits one of his eyebrows, and hell if that isn't the sexiest thing I've ever seen on a man.
I wonder what his voice sounds like. Will it be deep?
I really, really have no idea what the hell is wrong with me. He's a cold-blooded killer.
There is no evidence for that, only rumors, Vi.
Oh, come on, his knuckles are bruised.
Could be from boxing. Many men box for fun.
He is the son of a mafia boss.
Yeah, and you have no idea who your father is.
I have no idea where my internal debate is leading, but I have had enough.
I need to get my head checked. I need to stop myself from walking down those basement steps again.
My right foot is already hovering above the first step, ready for another descent.
His father threatened me yesterday. Luciano threatened me the first day we met.
I have no doubt Marcello isn't any better than them.
Determined, I pull myself together, making a mental note to put some cream on the rash later.
The other man's voice interrupts my inner turmoil, "Keep me updated if you hear anything," he directs Luciano.
"I'd appreciate the same courtesy. I have a feeling I'll hear from you before I hear from Mister Orsi." Luciano replies darkly, pronouncing the Mister like it's something dirty.
The stranger's exit leaves Luciano in silence. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, "Why didn't his father come by sooner?"
I don't know why it's been bothering me.
I've dealt with all kinds of family members before: those who are just like Luciano and never leave the patient's side, and those who show up days or even weeks after they've been notified.
For some reason, though, I thought mafia families had deeper ties.
I would have expected Mr. Orsi to show up while Marcello was still in surgery.
It was hard to pay attention to the father-son relationship while Mr. Orsi was threatening me and choking Doctor Waspo, but I didn't get the impression that Mr. Orsi actually cared for his son.
"Carlos Orsi is a hard man," Luciano says after a moment of hesitation. "He did get daily updates."
I cock an eyebrow at him.
He sighs. "He was busy making contingency plans."
"Contingency plans?" I ask aghast. "As in Marcello dying?"
He nods.
I draw my brows together, unable to comprehend.
"There's a lot at stake here," Luciano tries to explain. "The family business…" He drifts off.
I kind of get it. I think. But no, not really. In my world, family is everything. If one of my family members were injured, I'd be there the moment I heard about it. Then again, I don't have an empire to run. Still. In what world is money more important than someone's son?
"Carlos's older son, Angelo, was killed last year. Marcello was recalled from Sicily to step in."
"Hmm," I reply noncommittally, eying the coffee he's still holding out like a peace offering.
"He went too far; he had no right to threaten you," Luciano says, shaking the coffee carefully, grinning his boyish grin at me.
"Damn you." I take the coffee, and his grin deepens. I push him out of the way so I can access the laptop and check on the night report.
"Where is he? Where is my love?" Three days later, a woman stumbles into the ICU. Her high heels clank on the floor, and her voice carries over the noise of beeping monitors. She is loudly made up and dressed as if she's on her way to a high-society funeral.
Luciano hands me my coffee for the day and sighs. "Mina. I was wondering when she would show up."
Over the last three days, our relationship has improved as much as it can after the threats he uttered—and no, it's not because of the coffee he keeps bringing or the donuts.
I think we bonded some over Sophia's visit, as much as you can bond with a mafia man.
There is something about him that garners my respect, even knowing what he is.
"Mina?" I echo, staring at the woman whose hair is piled so high I'm not sure it'll make it through the entrance. She's the epitome of a mafia wife.
"The fiancée. Although I have no clue what Marcello sees in her," Luciano explains.
A sudden pinch runs through my stomach. Of course a man like Marcello Orsi has a fiancée. How na?ve of me not to consider it. I stare at the still form on the bed. Over the last couple of days, I've taken a few more tentative steps down the imaginary stairs, but now I'm backing up again.
Mina is model-perfect and beautiful. Maybe a little overdone, but she can pull it off. She wears expensive designer clothes, shoes, and jewelry. Nothing on her looks is out of place—except her being here.
It's not jealousy that rises up in me, not relief either, although that should be at the top of my emotional list. No, it's regret.
Regret for something I didn't have in the first place, and regret over losing my fantasies.
Fantasies, daydreams, dangerous paths. None of which I should indulge in.
I need to get up those stairs and close the damn door. Put a padlock on it.
"Oh Lucio," she croons, dramatically enfolding Luciano into an embrace. "How is he? I didn't know, I swear. I was in Naples, and I just heard about it. Of course, I took the first flight back here. Why Marcello won't let me use one of his private jets, I will never understand, and—"
The rest of her words pass right by me, as my attention shifts to my patient, lying prone on the hospital bed. His right leg is still elevated. He was lucky he didn't lose it; the bullet didn't touch his bone or artery. Same with the bullet wound on his calf and shoulder.
The moment the shrill voice of his fiancée first sounds off, I notice an increase in his heart rate, which, I suppose, is only normal when hearing a loved one's voice, but to be safe, I adjust his medication.
Once again, I'm having a hard time understanding why it took her so long to show up.
Naples is a twelve-hour—or something like that—flight from here.
Twenty-four at the most. And it's been five days. Five. Days!
"Oh, my poor, poor Marcello," the fiancée wails behind me, and I make a discreet exit to give her some room and privacy.
Luciano leans against the open sliding door, shaking his head, a look of pure distaste on his face. "Such a show. Just heard about it, my ass. She didn't want to stop partying and shopping." He mumbles.
Had he not threatened my family, I think I might have liked him.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Mina has me hopping as if I am her personal servant and not Marcello's nurse.
I need coffee, this coffee is too hot, this coffee isn't sweet enough/too sweet.
I need water. This isn't Voss. Do you have some crackers?
I keep reminding myself that she is a distressed fiancée and bring her whatever she needs whenever I can.
Thankfully, she only stays an hour—but what an hour it is. Afterward, I have a hard time getting Marcello's blood pressure back down and am forced to call Doctor Waspo to consult.
Finally, it's evening, which is quickly becoming my favorite part of the day.
When things started quieting down, I sent Luciano to the cafeteria to get something to eat, with instructions to stop by the family room and take a shower before returning.
It took some cajoling and swearing on my mother's grave that I would take good care of Marcello, but I finally got him to agree.
As soon as he left, I put in a call and arranged for a more comfortable recliner to be brought to the room for him.
So now it's just me and Marcello—and well, his four guards in the hallway.
I fuss over Marcello's lines longer than I need, then step back.
"Don't worry. You'll be good as new soon." I keep my voice low so the guards by the door won't hear me.
The doctors told Luciano and Mina to talk to Marcello; it's important for him to hear familiar voices.
I try not to listen in when I have to go in the room to check on Marcello, but it's impossible not to.
Luciano is obviously uncomfortable talking to him lying there so still.
He says things like: don't worry, Casimo is taken care of, the assets in the east are secure, stuff like that.
Words that I don't want to hear or read into.
They remind me too much of the dangerous world Marcello lives in.
Mina, when she wasn't bossing me around, spent her time wailing about a favorite outfit she spilled wine on when she heard about Marcello being shot, and describing in detail the dresses she bought at a fashion show.
I stare at Marcello's lifeless form and say something about the weather, how it is supposed to rain.
I catch myself brushing my fingers over his arm and recoil.
That is so inappropriate! Heat flushes my face.
After he is released, I need to seriously reevaluate my life and career choices.
I'm obviously getting way too entangled in my patients' lives.
And if that's not bad enough, I'm developing feelings for him.
Inappropriate feelings. Unprofessional feelings.
Not to mention dangerous feelings. I'm crushing on my unconscious patient.
My engaged unconscious patient. This needs to stop.
But God help me. Even unconscious, he radiates an aura of power that draws me in without me being able to say why. I'm certain he is a man used to giving orders and having them followed—duh, Sherlock, he's a mafia boss. He knows how to take charge and excels at it.
I try to tell myself that it's easy to develop a crush on a man lying on a hospital bed.
No matter what I know about him, my nursing instincts are alive with the desire to heal him.
But that's not all of it, is it, Vi? I ask myself.
And since I'm always honest, even with myself, I subdue a little sigh, shake my head at myself, and admit that Marcello, even in his helpless state, is the hottest man I've ever encountered.
Even while he sleeps, power bleeds out of every pore of his body—and an extremely handsome body at that.
It's impossible not to notice how buff he is, how much pride he takes in honing his body and making it healthy, a dedication that probably saved his life. Not many people survive losing as much blood as he did.
His cheeks look gaunt at the moment, but when paired with the five o'clock shadow—which Luciano will take care of unfailingly in the morning—it makes him even more attractive.
His lips are dry and pale, and I apply Vaseline, marveling at how sensuous they are.
What does he look like when he smiles, or what would they feel like if he kissed me, I wonder.
The outrageousness of my thoughts doesn't have a chance to fully sink in with me, because…
I have an idea what it would be like, and sigh.
What is it about this man that has me fantasizing about him?
He's my patient, and I'm not being even remotely professional.