Page 8 of Mob Knight

His expression turns into a thundercloud, and I want to swallow my words, but I don’t know why he’s reacting this way.

“You called it nursemaid’s elbow. That’s usually something that only happens to kids when they refuse to follow whoever’s holding their arm, and they drop their weight. Yanking the kid’s arm usually isn’t intentional, but it can be. It’s also something most kids don’t remember. Are you telling me you know what it is from seeing your—” his hand gestures into the air— “clients, patients, whatever they are? Because that’s not how it sounds. It sounds like this has happened to you since you’ve been an adult.”

He’s digging a little too close to the truth, and I don’t like it. I need to get out of here before he pushes too hard, and I end up saying something I shouldn’t. Because as much as I want to resist, something about him compels me to tell the truth.

“Cormac, you’re making a bigger deal out of this than it should be. I can remember it from when I was a kid, and yeah, I have seen it in clients. It’ll heal. There’s not much to be done for it. How do you know what it is?”

I turn the tables on him, but the moment the words are out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t. I don’t want to know what he does to people who cross him or his family.

“When I was six, I got into an argument with my cousin when I refused to give back a toy he wanted. We were yelling over each other, thinking the loudest would win. My mom tugged at my arm just like my aunt tugged at his. We both did the same thing, which was drop all our body weight to sit because neither of us wanted to give in about the Lego set we were playing with. He and I both wound up with the same injury. I was old enough to remember.”

I watch him, and I have no reason to think he’s lying, but he could be. I bet he’s avoiding telling me the whole truth, which is he’s probably caused this in other people. I don’t want to imagine the things he’s probably done, but I can’t help it after seeing him pointing a gun at two guys who are barely more than kids.

As I watch him, I’m certain that’s what kept him from shooting them. If they’d been much older than they are now, he probably would have, and I doubt he would’ve aimed to miss. He was giving them a chance. I suppose that’s pretty honorable all things considering.

“Joey, just have it looked at on the off chance it’s worse than you think. If it’s not that bad, then no big deal. But if it is, thenyou’ll just end up making it worse if it needs something more than ice and rest.”

The last thing I want is an emergency room co-pay. All I hear in my head is cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching. That’s not worth it to me, but I can’t tell him that. He nods. I think he’s giving up. More fool am I.

“If you think the emergency room will be a waste of time—” He cocks an eyebrow, and I know he knew what I was thinking. He just doesn’t want to embarrass me by saying money— “then let me refer you to a woman I know who won’t bill you if you say I sent you.”

My brow furrows, and I wonder what kind of arrangement he has with a woman who’d examine me at no charge. My gaze darts to his left hand, but I don’t see a ring.

“She’s not my wife or my girlfriend. I don’t have either of those.”

My cheeks radiate heat, completely embarrassed he knew what I was thinking—I don’t want to think he’s taken. Then again, maybe he could believe I’m worried she’d get the wrong idea if he sent a woman to her. But if she were his wife or girlfriend, and he did, then she would probably understand I mean nothing to him beyond a sense of guilt. I’m certain that’s why he’s insisting. He already admitted he feels guilty. That’s why he wants this off his conscience.

“I do feel responsible, and I do feel guilty.”

I take the last step up and stand before him as he admits his reasons. I moved slowly because I was still scanning the area to ensure the wrong person wouldn’t see me coming up the stairs and even worse, speaking to a mobster in a cartel-owned neighborhood.

“But it’s not just those things that make me insist you get it looked at. You work in a rough neighborhood and likely help kids whose families either don’t have the means to do all thethings they wish they could for their kids, or families where you’re a lifeline for the children. You being out of commission means more than just you being hurt. It means those kids won’t get the support they need. I don’t want that either.”

“Does your conscience usually speak this loudly?”

“No.”

I didn’t think about the question before I spat it out, but he doesn’t think about his answer either. It’s immediate, and it confirms what I already knew: I should have nothing to do with a man like Cormac O’Rourke. Yet here I am, in no hurry to leave. I could have bolted. Instead, I’m dragging out this conversation.

One part of my mind screams I’m an idiot, and the other can barely keep my tongue from hanging out and drooling over him.

“I won’t insist you get into a car with me. I can tell you don’t trust me that much, and that’s fine. But let me give you this woman’s number, and you can call her when I’m not around. I won’t ask her if you do, so you won’t have to admit to giving in.”

He flashes me a smile as he sticks out his hand. I take a second to realize he’s waiting for me to give him my phone. I hesitate. I’m not sure I should hand it over.

“You can watch everything I type on the screen. I’m just going to put a phone number in your contacts.”

“All right.”

I peer down at the screen as he types in the name Meredith and then a phone number. I shift my gaze up to his face, but he’s still looking down. He doesn’t put a last name in, and it makes me suspicious, or rather, it confirms my suspicions. This is a mob doctor who would see me off the books. That would only suck me deeper into a world I’ve been hiding from ever since my first encounter with Pablo Diaz.

Guys like Ronaldo and Jesus are all over this neighborhood, but men like Pablo—and clearly like Cormac—aren’t some low-level hustlers. If he has the last name O’Rourke, and he wearscustom-tailored suits like he has on now, then he has to be a pretty senior member of that family.

He hands back my phone, and I lock it before dropping it in my pocket.

“Are you headed to your car?”

I nod. I’m certain he’s not taking a bus or a subway.

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