Page 13 of Wounded King
Mina is model-perfect and beautiful. Maybe a little overdone, but she can pull it off. She wears expensive designer clothes, shoes, and jewelry. Nothing on her looks is out of place—except her being here.
It's not jealousy that rises up in me, not relief either, although that should be at the top of my emotional list. No, it's regret. Regret for something I didn't have in the first place, and regret over losing my fantasies. Fantasies, daydreams, dangerous paths. None of which I should indulge in. I need to get up those stairs and close the damn door. Put a padlock on it.
"Oh Lucio," she croons, dramatically enfolding Luciano into an embrace. "How is he? I didn't know, I swear. I was in Naples, and I just heard about it. Of course, I took the first flight back here. Why Marcello won't let me use one of his private jets, I will never understand, and?—"
The rest of her words pass right by me, as my attention shifts to my patient, lying prone on the hospital bed. His right leg is still elevated. He was lucky he didn't lose it; the bullet didn't touch his bone or artery. Same with the bullet wound on his calf and shoulder.
The moment the shrill voice of his fiancée first sounds off, I notice an increase in his heart rate, which, I suppose, is only normal when hearing a loved one's voice, but to be safe, I adjust his medication. Once again, I'm having a hard time understanding why it took her so long to show up. Naples is a twelve-hour—or something like that—flight from here. Twenty-four at the most. And it's been five days. Five. Days!
"Oh, my poor, poor Marcello," the fiancée wails behind me, and I make a discreet exit to give her some room and privacy.
Luciano leans against the open sliding door, shaking his head, a look of pure distaste on his face. "Such a show. Just heard about it, my ass. She didn't want to stop partying and shopping." He mumbles.
Had he not threatened my family, I think I might have liked him.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. Mina has me hopping as if I am her personal servant and not Marcello's nurse.I need coffee, this coffee is too hot, this coffee isn't sweet enough/too sweet. I need water. This isn't Voss. Do you have some crackers? I keep reminding myself that she is a distressed fiancée and bring her whatever she needs whenever I can.
Thankfully, she only stays an hour—but what an hour it is. Afterward, I have a hard time getting Marcello's blood pressure back down and am forced to call Doctor Waspo to consult.
Finally, it's evening, which is quickly becoming my favorite part of the day. When things started quieting down, I sent Luciano to the cafeteria to get something to eat, with instructions to stop by the family room and take a shower before returning. It took some cajoling and swearing on my mother's grave that I would take good care of Marcello, but I finally got him to agree. As soon as he left, I put in a call and arranged for a more comfortable recliner to be brought to the room for him. So now it's just me and Marcello—and well, his four guards in the hallway. I fuss over Marcello's lines longer than I need, then step back.
"Don't worry. You'll be good as new soon." I keep my voice low so the guards by the door won't hear me.
The doctors told Luciano and Mina to talk to Marcello; it's important for him to hear familiar voices. I try not to listen in when I have to go in the room to check on Marcello, but it's impossible not to. Luciano is obviously uncomfortable talking to him lying there so still. He says things like:don't worry, Casimo is taken care of, the assets in the east are secure,stuff like that. Words that I don't want to hear or read into. They remind me too much of the dangerous world Marcello lives in.
Mina, when she wasn't bossing me around, spent her time wailing about a favorite outfit she spilled wine on when she heard about Marcello being shot, and describing in detail the dresses she bought at a fashion show.
I stare at Marcello's lifeless form and say something about the weather, how it is supposed to rain. I catch myself brushing my fingers over his arm and recoil. That is so inappropriate! Heat flushes my face. After he is released, I need to seriously reevaluate my life and career choices. I'm obviously getting way too entangled in my patients' lives. And if that's not bad enough, I'm developing feelings for him.Inappropriatefeelings.Unprofessionalfeelings. Not to mentiondangerousfeelings. I'm crushing on my unconscious patient. Myengagedunconscious patient. This needs to stop.
But God help me. Even unconscious, he radiates an aura of power that draws me in without me being able to say why. I'm certain he is a man used to giving orders and having them followed—duh, Sherlock, he's a mafia boss. He knows how to take charge and excels at it.
I try to tell myself that it's easy to develop a crush on a man lying on a hospital bed. No matter what I know about him, my nursing instincts are alive with the desire to heal him.But that's not all of it, is it, Vi? I ask myself. And since I'm always honest, even with myself, I subdue a little sigh, shake my head at myself, and admit that Marcello, even in his helpless state, is the hottest man I've ever encountered. Even while he sleeps, power bleeds out of every pore of his body—and an extremely handsome body at that.
It's impossible not to notice how buff he is, how much pride he takes in honing his body and making it healthy, a dedication that probably saved his life. Not many people survive losing as much blood as he did.
His cheeks look gaunt at the moment, but when paired with the five o'clock shadow—which Luciano will take care of unfailingly in the morning—it makes him even more attractive. His lips are dry and pale, and I apply Vaseline, marveling at how sensuous they are.What does he look like when he smiles, or what would they feel like if he kissed me, I wonder. The outrageousness of my thoughts doesn't have a chance to fully sink in with me, because… I have an idea what it would be like, and sigh. What is it about this man that has me fantasizing about him?He's my patient, and I'm not being even remotely professional.
The next day…
"This is weird," I mumble as I check through the medicine history, like I do every morning when I arrive. Luciano and I have a little routine going. He hands me my coffee, sometimes accompanied by a donut, and complains about the night nurse, while I catch up on the notes she left during her shift.
"What?" Luciano is instantly alert.
"This order," I say, staring at the name of the medication and the dosage.
"What?" Luciano repeats, pushing me out of the way. He stares at the monitor, which he has no right to, and which violates every known HIPAA rule, but I pretend I don't notice. Instead, I point at the medication.
"What am I looking at?"
"This is Marcello's normal saline order," I say, pointing at it. "The dosage is set to one point five liters, because of his brain swelling, but a few hours ago, Doctor Waspo ordered to have it doubled, that's?—"
A sudden high-pitched alarm from Marcello's monitors interrupts me.
"What's happening?" Luciano yells, pulling his gun.
I rush over to Marcello's side, stop the saline IV, and stare at his vitals. "He's going into cardiac arrest," I yell, and then, a bit calmer, "You know guns are not allowed in here."
"Do something," Luciano stares from me to Marcello, whose body is bathed in sweat and shaking.
