Page 12 of Conall's Reign

“Conall,” I asked, blinking. “What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t actually a question. Conall had been appearing in unusual places for years, lingering at the edges of my life. He would bring me coffee after class or see me to my train following a late study session. At first, I suspected Angelo or Remo had sent him, but I quickly revised that theory. His appearances felt too random, and I wasn’t certain my brothers would approve. As one of Angelo’s closest friends, he had ample access to my life, yet that never dulled the awareness that skittered across my skin when he was near. There was also that familiar mix of anger and resentment that filled me with discomfort whenever I saw Conall. He embodied something I didn’t want to confront — something I had been evading for years. Still, I’d always had a thing for O’Kelly.

I learned that he hadn’t come for conversation. He didn’t want to talk to me. He wanted to see me. He would stay for a few minutes and then leave like a phantom.

“What does it look like I’m doing here? Bringing you coffee.” He stepped closer, holding the cup out to me along with a small paper bag. “Double shot, just how you like it. I figured you might skip breakfast, so I got you a muffin.”

My fingers wrapped around the warm cup, my skin briefly brushing against his. The heat seeped into my chilled hands, and I could have sighed in relief. I stared at him for a moment, trying to reconcile the timing of his appearance with the chaos of my morning.

“How did you know I was on shift?” I asked, my tone half-accusing but mostly curious. “Angelo?”

“Maybe,” he said. “But no. You’re predictable. You’d rather show up empty-handed than be late.” His eyes flicked briefly to mine. “I figured the morning rush would be rough, but he didn’t send me. You’ve made it clear that you didn’t want him coming around your hospital.” His mouth tightened in disapproval at my dismissal of my brother.

The mafia life wasn’t something I wanted trailing behind me to this place. My lips parted to respond, but the elevator dinged, interrupting me. I glanced at the open doors and then back at him. I hadn’t been able to figure out why Conall showed up when he did or why he showed up at all. He maintained rigid control over his life, yet he brought me coffee. He made no sense. I reminded myself sternly that I had no business with mafia men or with O’Kelly, despite the small kernel of need that sprang up inside me every time I saw his handsome face.

“I’m already running late.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

“I understand,” he replied, unfazed and untroubled, his expression unchanged. “Have a great day, Francesca.”

I hesitated as something warm unfurled in my chest before entering the elevator. “Thanks,” I said, raising the cup to him. “I needed this.” As the doors slid shut, I caught one last glimpse of him, his hands tucked into his pockets. There was almost a shadow of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

Elevators were my nemesis. There was something unsettling about being in a small metal box propelled by cables that could potentially snap. To be honest, it all felt a bit too precarious. I tried hard to focus on the buttons and the fact that my floor was approaching, trying to ignore the reality that I was trapped. I tried to think of other things instead.

Conall O’Kelly was an enigma. Yet, he brought me coffee, and I sipped it gratefully. There were many things I could have said to him, but I carried a lot of baggage for too many years to bridge that gap right now. Still, it was tempting.Hewas tempting.

I sipped the coffee, allowing its warmth to spread as the elevator ascended. I’d never admit it, but he was right—it was precisely what I needed.

I checked my badge again, more out of habit than necessity. As I approached the nursing station, the familiar chaos of a hospital morning surrounded me—phones ringing, patients calling for assistance, and the steady hum of conversation as nurses handed off their shifts. My mind raced as I mentally prepared for whatever awaited me today.

“Frankie,” a sharp voice called from behind the counter. Sarah, the charge nurse, glanced at me over her glasses with a stern but not unkind expression. “Marie is out sick today, so you can put your care plan in her box. You’ll be shadowing in the surgical ward today. Room 412 needs vitals, and 408 is waiting for a post-op assessment. Let’s see how you handle it.”

Marie was my nursing supervisor, a stickler for accuracy, but I’d gotten flying colors on my care plans. We all disliked writing them, but they were required. Shadowing the surgical ward was a gift. Still, I tried to suppress the flutter of nerves as I contemplated the day ahead.

“Got it,” I said instead.

“And Frankie,” she added, her voice lowering to a softer tone. “Don’t let them wear you out. Remember to breathe, alright?”

I gave a small smile of gratitude. “Thanks, Sarah.”

Taking a deep breath, I walked toward Room 412. The knot in my chest tightened as I stepped inside and saw an elderly man sitting in bed, his eyes tracking my every move. His chart showed he was recovering from open-heart surgery. I introduced myself, my voice steady, and began the routine check of his vitals with a nurse overseeing me. He didn’t say much, but his wary gaze softened as I engaged in small talk, asking about the photos of his grandkids propped on the bedside table.

“You’re new,” he said gruffly as I adjusted the blood pressure cuff.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Still getting my bearings.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, surprising me with a slight smile. “You have a gentle face.”

My cheeks warmed. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

After checking his vitals, I proceeded to Room 408. A younger woman, likely in her late thirties, was propped up against a mountain of pillows. Her chart indicated that she had undergone emergency surgery the night before. As I entered, she glanced up from her phone. Her face was pale, but her eyes were sharp.

“Hi, I’m Frankie,” I said, offering her a reassuring smile. “I’m a nursing student here to check on you with your nurse. How are you feeling this morning?”

She grimaced. “Like someone stabbed me and forgot to apologize.”

I chuckled softly. “Fair enough. Let’s make sure everything’s healing as it should be.”

As I helped with her assessment, I maintained a steady flow of conversation, hoping to distract her from the discomfort. By the time I left the room, she appeared somewhat more at ease, though I made a mental note to ask the nurse about her pain management plan just to make sure.

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