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That’s another threat to track and neutralize.
I nod, my face blank, and thank Nico for the information. Then I walk to the window at the end of the hall and peer down at the compound below. The people are going about their days unaware of how fragile everything is.
Lucia needs space, Dmitri is dead, and while we all dilly-dally, Bruno is planning his next move.
Too many things seem to be happening at once.
Gritting my teeth, I heave a heavy sigh.
This is not the time to despair or to doubt. I have work to do.
Chapter 21
Lucia
My emergency leave finally runs out. The weeks away from the hospital feel like a lifetime, and now, I’m finally back at Ashford for my first shift in a while.
When we finished arguing about whether I should return to work at all, Marco told me he would post someone at the hospital to watch me. We agreed that I shouldn’t know their identity because the knowledge could distract me.
Whichever Benedetti soldier they assigned me is damn good at their job, because even though I try to find them, my eyes don’t land on anyone out of place when I walk through the automatic doors.
This feels like jumping back on a bicycle you’ve abandoned since childhood and riding through the streets you grew up on. My body knows which corner to turn, what side of the hallway the hospital porters roll their carts on, the rooms the blend of blood, bleach and antiseptics come from.
But there’s something missing.
The hospital might be the same, but I’m different.
My eyes scan every face in the lobby for threats instead of symptoms, and my hand instinctively reaches for the small of my back where Marco’s palm usually rests.
When I decided to return to work, it was because I wanted to get away from Marco’s world, but in the absence of him, I’m lost.
Jenna catches me in the break room after my first patient, taking in my white-knuckled grip on the coffee cup.
“Okay, spill.” She positions herself in front of the door, her arms crossed in that stance that conveys she’s not budging until she gets answers. “You’ve been gone for weeks, you look like you haven’t slept since approximately the last ice age, and you’re wearing that expression that says you’ve got a war going on in your head.”
“I’m fine.” I offer the same hollow response I’ve been giving since Tomas held a gun to my head. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit.” Jenna’s voice softens. “Lu, I’ve known you for six years. You’re my emergency contact and the person who gets my organs if things go sideways. You think I can’t tell when you’re falling apart?”
My fears, worries, and misgivings feel like a large fist closing around my windpipe, keeping the words stuck in there. Thankfully, my beeping pager saves me from further awkwardness. Gunshot wound, trauma alert in bay two. ETA three minutes.
Jenna rolls her eyes as I rush out, my body flooding with adrenaline. How ironic that I find a medical crisis more comfortable than opening up to a friend.
I’ve got work to do, and I’m glad for the distraction.
The patient is a young guy in his early twenties, dressed in an expensive cashmere-and-sneakers attire that belongs at a private clinic on the Upper East Side, not here. Considering those shoes must have cost north of a thousand dollars, someone probably robbed him for his valuables. There’s an entry wound in his thigh. The bleeding is heavy but not catastrophic.
His eyes are wide and nearly black, the pupils blown with fear.
“You’re going to be fine.” My voice is calm while my hands run through the familiar choreography of stabilizing him. “What’s your name?”
“Tyler.” His voice shakes and cracks on the last syllable. “Am I… Am I going to die?”
“Not today, Tyler. Not on my watch.”
My fingers find the wound as I map veins and pressure points without conscious thought. Noah appears at my elbow, eager as a puppy, and I put him to work on lines and vitals, grateful for the extra assistance.
As soon as I finish wrapping my patient’s thigh and smooth the dressing with the flat of my palm, he starts whispering.
