Page 11 of Unforgivable Ties

After twenty minutes, we arrived at a warehouse district that was different from the one I called home.

“So...does all mafia crime take place in warehouses, then?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Vincenzo let out what could almost be considered a laugh. “Not all of it, but warehouses make practical bases. They’re spacious, mostly unmonitored, and convenient for...certain activities.”

I held my hand up. I did not want to know what activities went on in those warehouses beyond the ones I was being paid to do.

Vincenzo parked the car and turned off the ignition. He stepped out and opened my door with a flourish. “Let’s go.”

I hesitantly unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out of the car, making note of the two men guarding the front of the building. I wondered what exactly they were guarding.

Walking alongside Vincenzo, I noticed the men nodded slightly in acknowledgement before sliding open the towering metal doors, revealing the inner workings of the warehouse. The front was open, but there was a hallway with many rooms, and I knew I didn’t want to see what was in the rest.

I followed him down the hallway, the echoing sound of our footsteps filling the space where our conversation should be. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting an uninviting, stark glow on the cold, grey concrete floors and walls. Despite the size of the building, it felt claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in on us.

“Here,” Vincenzo said, stopping in front of a steel door.

He pushed the door open, and I followed behind him. An older man with glasses sat behind a steel desk, his grey hair combed neatly back. He looked up from the stack of papers he was examining and his gaze locked onto me. The intensity in his eyes made me feel as if he could see through my soul.

“Stephanie, I presume?” the man asked.

“Yes,” I responded, doing my best to appear confident. These people were in the mafia, and I couldn’t let them smell my fear.

“Dr. Cesare Bianchi. You’ll be working with me now.”

“Nice to meet you.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “You’re not here to make small talk, and neither am I. We’ve got work to do.”

I internally groaned. It looked like all mafia members were as unpleasant as Vincenzo.

“I’ll be on my way,” Vincenzo said, and I tried not to panic. The one scary mafia member I knew was leaving me alone in a warehouse full of mafia members I didn’t know.

“Don’t get shot again until I get her trained,” Cesare replied, not looking at Vincenzo as he walked out of the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving us alone in the fluorescent wash of the room. Cesare stared at me a moment longer, his gaze making my skin prickle. Then he sighed, ran a hand through his hair and hooked his glasses over his ear.

“Come,” he said, standing and gesturing for me to follow him into an attached room.

I followed obediently, my heart hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it. The nerve to flee had passed, and I was resigned to the fact that this warehouse was now my home. Here, I would learn the ins and outs of mob medical practices. It felt like being hurled into a den of wolves.

The room was filled with various basic medical equipment, such as an examination table and supplies to take care ofpatients. If I didn’t know I was in a mafia warehouse, I would have mistaken it for a regular doctor’s office.

“We have a lot of incidents in our line of work,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather. “Many are things you’ve been trained to handle. Gunshots, stabbings, burns—assuming they’re not severe.”

“Um...I’ve only done those with a medical doctor present. Well, and Vincenzo’s wound, but that was an emergency.”

“This isn’t a hospital. You will not operate under laws and regulations in this building,” Cesare said, facing me. “I don’t care that you’re only in medical school. You’re capable of doing the work, and that’s what matters.”

“Oh, okay,” I said hesitantly, wringing my hands. I wondered how I’d been reduced to this—from a promising medical student with dreams of working in a top hospital to a criminal organization’s private medical staff.

Cesare showed me where everything was located in the room. Bandages, antiseptics, painkillers, an array of surgical tools—each had its designated space on the shelves. He rummaged in a cabinet, revealing a digital x-ray machine and a portable ultrasound device.

“It’s going to be a slow day, so I doubt you’ll get any patients. You can just sit at the desk and study in your free time.”

“Alright, thanks,” I said, and paused. “How do you know it’ll be a slow day?”

“I usually get a heads up. Also, the weekends tend to be busier; something about them goes hand in hand with crime,” he responded nonchalantly.

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