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“Tell her that Dante Luciano from New York has sent us,” Benji tells him slowly, almost calculating, and I narrow my eyes as I look at him. What pull does Dante have in this hospital?
Ian sighs. “Fine, give me a few minutes. I will page Doctor Wakeford for you,” He concedes, before grabbing his clipboard and walking out the door, leaving us in silence.
Taking a strangled breath, I glance around the room, trying to distract myself. Only, there’s not much to see. Everything is stark and bland, white and clean, and I squint under the bright lights, the pounding in my head increasing. It’s a small room, made even smaller by Benji and me in it, the two of us both tall and broad. Our daily sessions at the gym give us the bulk many men envy and women cower from. The bed linen is scratchy, and while it is quiet in the room, I can hear the running around on the other side of our door, machines beeping, people talking, many of them frantic, probably not unusual for a Saturday night. I hear the security team struggling nearby with what I can assume is some drunk idiot, and I fleetingly think that could have been me had it not been for Sebastian and Dante picking me up off the streets all those years ago.
“How does Dante know a doctor down here?” I give in to my curiosity, turning to face his direction.
Tonight, shit was going down in New York, and the boys couldn’t make it to my fight. Hell, I nearly didn’t make it either, because family comes first, and I should be with them. But Sebastian is aware I am trying to build my life down here and told me they had it under control.
“Nico said the doctor that fixed up Annie after the shooting now works here. That’s why I brought you here instead of that other shithole you usually go to get checked.” He finally sits down in the white plastic chair that looks about as comfortable as a pile of rocks. Rubbing his head, he’s visibly exhausted, his adrenalin wearing off.
It’s a good thing. I think this power trip of being my manager while the boys are away is chipping at his sanity. I would yell at him if my fucking head didn’t hurt so much. Instead, I close my eyes, attempting to calm my breathing once again.
I fucking hate hospitals.
This doctor better hurry up before I lose my mind.
2
Dr. Catherine Wakeford
Pushing my chair out, I stand up from my desk and roll my shoulders, trying to relieve my constantly tight, sore muscles from my stressful daily grind. It has been a long night already. Saturday night at the hospital is always crazy, though. Usually that means the late shift goes fast, which I am grateful for.
Since performing surgery for a man injured in a car accident, I have been back here in my office, combatting the mountain of paperwork requiring my attention. The most important being the plans and project outlines for the new Emergency Department that the hospital is in the midst of building. While our current facilities are good, they will soon be one of the most technologically advanced in the country. I am super proud that I get to lead it.
When I made my rounds on the floor earlier, I could see all the usual suspects had come in. Saturday afternoons we were full of kids and families, since the sporting days ensure we are busy with broken bones, sprained limbs, and deep cuts. But Saturday nights are my least favorite, because that is when we get the drunks, fighters, and other questionable characters who have indulged in drugs and other such activities. All of which warrants the high number of security guards we now have down on the floor.
It is unbelievable that we need security to protect the people who help and heal.
Walking over to my door, I grab my white coat from my coat rack and put it on, ready to check on what craziness is currently happening outside my door. Something I try to do on the hour, every hour.
I shouldn’t complain, it is my only form of exercise, and the thousands of steps I do per shift far outweigh any I could accomplish in a run around the park.
When I accepted this job nine months ago, I negotiated that I only work one Saturday night per month. I love medicine; it has been in my blood for generations, but there is an eight-year-old I love more. Although she enjoys spending the night at her aunt's house, I miss her when I am away.
Already I can’t wait to see her for breakfast, before I delve into my Sunday soccer mom duties, and then attempt to fix the leaky tap that appeared in my kitchen this morning. Sighing, I grab the photo of Ivy from my desk, willing it to give me the energy I need. As much as I cherish every moment spent with my daughter, the single mom life can be tiring at times.
I’m lost in thought when my desk phone rings, and immediately my adrenaline kicks in. Being a doctor means hard work and long hours, especially in the ED, where you need to prepare yourself for anything.
“Doctor Wakeford,” I say as I answer the call.
“Catherine, we have a few guys down here that are requesting you,” Ian, my head nurse and closest friend, tells me.
“Requesting me?” I ask in surprise. I can’t say that anyone has ever requested me personally like this before. That piques my interest.
“Yes. White male, late twenties, presented himself with what looks like injuries to his face, abdomen, and hands.”
“A fight?” My brow furrows, wanting Ian to get more specific.
“Yes. A pretty brutal one, if you ask me. But they won’t let me assess. His friend is highly agitated and said that a Mr. Dante Luciano sent them to see you.”
I still for a moment, memories flooding my mind.
“Fine, Ian. Tell them I will be down in five minutes,” I reply, before hanging up the phone.
Dante Luciano. Second in command of the New York Mob. He brought his girlfriend to the emergency room with a gunshot wound back when I worked in New York over a year ago. Something I should have reported to the police, but instead, I kept it quiet because he offered cash to do so. While it wasn’t my finest hour, I needed the money to get Ivy and I to safety.
I hope karma doesn’t come back to bite me.
