Page 24
George Rogers, the gray-haired head of Ashford County Hospital security, peers at me. “You certain about what you saw, Doctor Romano?”
“I wasn’t hallucinating, George.”
After security leaves, I wander over to the staff backroom to make myself some chamomile tea, hoping its warm floral steam will soothe my frayed nerves. I slump into a hard plastic chair in a quiet corner, my mind raving with how close I’d come to danger.
I’m still sipping the tea I can’t taste when Marco Santori saunters through door like he’s the president of the Ashford County Hospital Board. Today, he wears deep brown trousers and a gray shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. A protruding vein under the skin of his tense jaw trips up my pulse.
He finds me in approximately forty-five seconds. Either he memorized the hospital’s layout for fun—which is on-brand for him—or one of my colleagues sold me out. Given the way Jenna reacts to tall, handsome men with expensive watches, I have a working theory about which one.
He stops just inside the doorway of the break room and stares at me.
This isn’t a glance or a casual look. He assesses me fully, from the top of my messy bun to my white-knuckled grip on the tea mug. Whatever he sees exacerbates the tension in his jaw.
“I’m fine.”
Clearly sensing the lie, Marco closes the door behind him, crosses the room, and then, unexpectedly, crouches in front of my chair until we’re on the same eye level.
He sits forward, his forearms resting loosely on his thighs. Being this close to him scrambles my mind. It’s hard to grasp a coherent thought while those dark brown glints in his eyes hold me.
I drop my own gaze to the mug, tracing the rim with my thumb.
“Lucia.” In his gruff tone, my name carries weight.
My fingers curl tighter around the mug until the ceramic bites into my palms. In four seconds flat, I cave and start to tell him what happened, as if I were at confession with a dangerously attractive priest. I describe how I followed the tattooed mafia man to the supply room and how I overheard the Russian-language conversation and then my surname.
When I finish, a charged silence descends. He sets his hand on the arm of my chair, stopping just short of my scrub sleeve. The tiny gap between us feels heavy.
He drops his voice. “You’re a target now.”
I swallow. “That seems dramatic. What aren’t you telling me?”
“It isn’t dramatic. I know these men. They aren’t going to leave it to chance or assume that you didn’t hear anything important.”
Every word triggers a landmine of fear.
The Volkov Bratva has had eyes on me ever since I treated their man with the gunshot wound. That sets off alarm bells in my head. The questions I asked that night about his ink and who had shot him didn’t go unnoticed. Now, after being caught eavesdropping, escalation is inevitable.
Escalation.
In medicine, escalation means more intervention, more risk, and the possibility of things going wrong.
“You need protection.” Marco’s tone leaves no room for debate. “My protection.”
I’d have burst into laughter at the offer, but this situation is far from funny. “No.”
His features don’t change. “You understand what happened in that supply room.”
“I understand better than you might expect.” I set my tea on the table with a quiet clink. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m a grown adult with a medical degree and a working relationship with some of the NYPD. I’ll handle this through the appropriate channels.”
Marco watches with that galling, immaculate composure that suggests he’s several steps ahead. “The appropriate channels include a detective named Mason Dellinger, I believe.”
That was a statement, not a question.
The name hits like cold water. I don’t even bother to ask how he knows about Mason. At this point, nothing surprises me.
“Yes, Detective Dellinger.”
“Dellinger can’t protect you from the Volkov Bratva.” Marco keeps his voice even and soft. “Calling him would be a significant mistake.”
