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"Fuck," I think, caught off guard by his question. I take a second to compose myself before responding. "No, kid, not your mom. Someone special to me, though. I want you to meet her."
"Okay," he agrees, his tiny frame sinking back into the seat. He seems content with my answer, or maybe just too tired to press further. Either way, I'm grateful for the reprieve.
Sebastian and I exchange glances, but neither of us speaks. We're both drowning in the murky waters of this life, desperate for some semblance of normalcy. But when you're neck-deep in organized crime, what the fuck is normal anymore?
The streets flash by, a blur of lights and shadows that mirror the chaos within me. My thoughts race, consumed by the danger surrounding Evelyn and the looming threat of the Westies. This city is a battleground, and it seems I've dragged everyone I care about onto the firing line.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dragging myself out of bed, I can't help but curse the few measly hours of sleep that were allowed to me. My thoughts are a chaotic mess, my eyes heavy with fatigue. Still, I go through the motions: getting dressed, making coffee, and gearing up for another day at the hospital.
"Stop thinking about him," I mutter to myself under my breath as I tie my hair back. His dark hair and green eyes invade my mind, but I try and remind myself of how little respect he has for women. That momentary lapse where he opened up to me yesterday had to be a fluke. He was clearly just delirious from everything that had happened. I can't be fooled into thinking he's got a softer side. I need to focus on work.
Stepping into the garage, I slide into my car, gripping the wheel tightly. The moment I pull out of the driveway, a sudden wave of nervousness washes over me. Did people see my car at the Maldonado mansion? Did anyone at the hospital make theconnection between me and Constantino when he visited? My heart races as I go through more worries while driving to work.
"Get a grip, Evelyn," I tell myself. "You're just tired, that's all." The rational part of me knows this is true, but there's a nagging voice in the back of my head that won't be silenced. That voice whispers of danger and the ever-present threat of being connected to a man like Constantino.
The drive to the hospital feels longer than usual, every mile weighed down by anxiety. Hunting for clarity, I try to focus on the road ahead, but my thoughts keep drifting back to him – his volatile nature, mind-blowing sex, and that goddamn medical alert tattoo he covers up. These details shouldn't matter to me, but they do. And it scares me.
"Stop," I command myself, gripping the wheel even tighter. "Just get through this shift, and then you can sleep for a while." I take a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
I try to continue to take calming breaths, but as I navigate the streets, all I can think about is whether or not people saw my car at the mansion, if they know what I did and who I was with. And if they do, what will it cost me?
"Fuck," I whisper, feeling the weight of my choices closing in on me. My grip on the wheel is white-knuckled; my eyes are darting around, searching for any hint of danger. I'm more than just tired – I'm terrified. And I don't know how much longer I can keep up this act.
After last night, things feel like they've changed, and not for the better.
Pulling into the hospital parking lot, I force myself to take a deep breath. "Everything's okay," I lie to myself under my breath.
I step out of the car and head towards the entrance, trying to shake off the lingering unease from the drive. As I walk into the hospital, I'm met with the familiar sounds and smells –the beeping of machines, the sharp tang of disinfectant, the low murmur of voices. Business as usual.
"Hey, Evelyn," Sam sneers as I pass by. "Nice to see you finally decided to grace us with your presence."
"Did someone forget to set their alarm?" her friend chimes in, snickering.
I grit my teeth and ignore their barbs. Just one more shift and I can rest.
"Dr. Moretti," a stern voice calls out, stopping me in my tracks. It's the hospital administrator, her face pinched with disapproval. "A word, please."
"Of course," I say, following her into her office, already bracing for the lecture I know is coming, but I'm not sure for what this time.
"Dr. Moretti," she begins, not bothering to offer me a seat. "We've been trying to contact you for two days. We needed you to come in yesterday, but you didn't answer any of our calls."
"Look," I say, rubbing my temple, "I wasn't available. I'm entitled to time off and my phone died."
"Unacceptable," she snaps. "This will be another black mark on your record, Dr. Moretti. You need to take your job more seriously."
"Seriously?" I reply, my frustration bubbling over. Something within me cracks. Maybe it's the lack of control I feel over my life right now. Maybe it's just that I'm tired of being pushed around by people. But, suddenly I feel the urge to stand up for myself in a way I never have before.
"I put my heart and soul into this job. I've saved patients that everyone thought were past saving! I'm a damn good doctor. Not only that, but I've been working double shifts for weeks, covering for others when they call in sick, and you're lecturing me about taking my job seriously? Give me a break!"
The administrator looks shocked at my outburst, her mouth hanging open slightly. Before she can regain her composure, there's a knock on the door.
"Excuse me," a security guard says, poking his head into the room. "But there are some people here asking for Dr. Moretti."
"Who?" I ask, trying to mask my sudden surge of nerves.
"Two men and a kid," he replies, his eyes darting between me and the administrator. "They said it's urgent."
