Page 466 of Rosetti Family New York
7 - Van
The Four Seasons ballroom is exactly the kind of bullshit I hate. Crystal chandeliers throw light everywhere, marble floors gleaming, Chicago's medical elite sipping champagne like they're saving the world instead of just cashing checks. The kind of place that makes my jaw clench, reminds me why I prefer trauma bays where at least the blood is honest.
But Carmela fits this world like she was born to it.
She moves through the crowd with liquid grace, that midnight-blue dress catching light with every step. Beading across the bodice catches the chandelier's glow, elegant in the way only truly expensive shit can be. She doesn't need to announce her wealth—radiates from her posture, the way waiters appear without being summoned.
I trail three steps behind, close enough to reach her in seconds, far enough to scan exits and threats. Six ways out including service entrances. Security's decent but relies too heavy on cameras, not enough bodies. Three men in expensive suits move wrong—too aware, something harder underneath than medical degrees.
My fingers brush the knife against my ribs. The Glock rests in its shoulder holster, hidden beneath my tuxedo jacket. Every waiter, every guest who lingers too long near Carmela, every shadow that doesn't belong gets marked.
This is hypervigilant at midnight in a room full of Chicago's most powerful people. Like electricity under my skin, every instinct screaming that elegant doesn't mean safe.
The emergency surgery got cancelled—rare stroke of luck that let me get back early, just in time to see her discover that room upstairs. The way she looked at me after finding it, understanding dawning in those green eyes about what I really am. The kiss we shared still burns between us, unfinished business that makes the air crackle with tension.
"Dr.Reyes?" A woman in pearls appears beside me, champagne tilted perfect. "I'm Dr.Patterson from Northwestern. Heard wonderful things about your trauma work."
I nod, keeping Carmela in peripheral vision as she laughs at something an older man whispers. "Thanks."
"The work you did on that multi-vehicle accident last month—brilliant improvisation. Most surgeons would have lost him."
My attention splits between her words and the men around her. The man talking to Carmela has surgeon's hands but predator's eyes. Two residents hover nearby like vultures. A waiter refills glasses with movements too practiced, too aware.
"Experience," I say, not elaborating. Military field surgery teaches you things civilian medicine never could. Like how to operate while mortars explode overhead. How to choose which of three dying patients gets the last unit of blood.
"Perhaps we could discuss a consultation over—"
"Excuse me." I step away mid-sentence, drawn by instinct toward where Carmela stands surrounded by admirers. The older man's hand hovers too close to her lower back, fingers spread possessive. Makes my vision narrow.
Professional detachment, I tell myself. Assignment. Protection detail for a debt I owe her family.
My body doesn't believe the lie.
"Dr.Aster was just telling me about the new cardiac wing," Carmela says as I approach, smile bright enough to power the chandeliers. The gala hostess had introduced us when we arrived, giving them my name though I'd never given it to her myself. Still not sure how she knows who I am, but wealthy families have their ways of getting information.
Aster extends a hand, grip firm, assessing. "The famous Dr.Reyes. Your reputation precedes you."
"Does it." I shake once, quick, attention already focused on the other men circling like sharks. Two residents in their late twenties lean against the bar, champagne making them bold as they eye Carmela with hungry appreciation that makes my hands itch for violence. A group of older surgeons—wealthy, established, the kind who collect young wives like trophies—drift closer with predatory patience.
"Miss Rosetti was just agreeing to save me a dance," says Dr.Williams, silver-haired cardiovascular surgeon whose hands rest too familiar on his champagne. "Though perhaps the younger doctors might compete for that honor."
The residents straighten, sensing opportunity. "Actually," says the tall one, stepping forward with liquid confidence, "I was hoping to discuss the gallery opening next week. I collect contemporary pieces myself."
Bullshit. Kid collects nothing but student loan debt and delusions.
"How fascinating," Carmela replies, gracious as always. "I'd love to hear your thoughts on emerging Chicago artists."
The kid lights up like Christmas, moving closer. His hand finds the small of her back as he leans in to murmur something that makes her laugh. The sound is too practiced, too polite. She's performing, playing the role they expect.
That hand on her back makes something dark uncoil in my chest.
Twenty-three years old, and they circle her like vultures. Men with expensive suits and distinguished gray hair, old enough to be her father, competing with boys young enough to be my students. All of them touching what isn't theirs, staking claims with casual contact that makes my jaw clench hard enough to crack teeth.
The age gap slams into me like ice water. Twelve years between us. That makes the bad choice, and as I watch boys her age make her smile wand offer her the world, I feel ancient. Used up. I have no business wanting someone so young, so bright.
This isn't about the debt anymore. Hasn't been since I wanted to break that kid's hand for touching her back. I'm supposed to protect her for Dom, not claim her for myself. But watching these men circle her like prey makes something savage roar in my chest: mine.
"The champagne is excellent," the second resident says, sidling closer until the three men form a triangle around her, blocking my view. "Perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere quieter?"
