Page 2 of Owned By the Mafia Boss

O’Reilly snorts. “Sure, right up until you drop him off at the hospital, then the real doctors take over.”

I incline my head at them. “Officers, Iama doctor. I’m just doing rounds as part of my emergency medicine rotation,” I don’t bother explaining that I won’t technically be a doctor until I graduate medical school a few months from now. I’m too busy enjoying the flustered looks on their faces.

“Oh…well, still,” O’Reilly says, regaining his composure. “Your patient there is none other than Sebastian Petrosky, the crown prince of the Russian organized crime syndicate.” He points at the vehicle. “This was probably some skirmish they were having with the Italians.”

“Jeez,” I say as Brian snaps off the door frame.

“Would you look at that ride,” the younger officer says in an awestruck tone. “That’s the Lamborghini Avanzado Spyder.” He shakes his head. “What a fucking shame.”

“Yeah, do a thorough search, I bet we’ll find all sorts of goodies in there,” O’Reilly says sardonically.

I think about the gun Sebastian has holstered beneath his jacket. I wonder if I should say something. But if he’s carrying it legally, there’s no crime committed here. Plus, Sebastian can barely keep his eyes open much less pose a serious threat to anyone. I’ll be sure it’s removed once we reach the hospital.

“Got it!” Brian says triumphantly, wrenching the door away.

“Let me in there,” I say, brushing past the two officers. I lean in with the neck brace in hand. “Sebastian, we’re going to move you now, but first I’m going to stabilize your neck with this brace. Okay?”

Another groan.

I gently ease the brace around his neck and fasten it in place. As I’m doing so, his eyes flick open, piercing me with his gaze. I’m momentarily transfixed by it before I withdraw from him. The rest of his face is a bruised and battered mess that’s beginning to swell. But the bone structure beneath suggests a handsome face.

We ease him out onto the stretcher and strap his head down to prevent any neck injury. The cops are quick to offer a hand to help haul Sebastian up the embankment. Our patient seems slightly more alert now. I notice his eyes dart over to the cops. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that’s a smirk on that punching bag of a face.

“Hey, doc,” O’Reilly says to me as we reach the top. “What hospital are you taking him to?”

I shoot him a look, as we lift Sebastian into the back of the ambulance. “Bellevue, but my patient won’t be in any shape to answer questions for quite some time.”

“Look, you do your job, and we’ll do ours.” He glares down at Sebastian. “We’ll see you there, Petrosky.”

I hop into the back with Sebastian as Brian shuts the doors behind us. Momentarily, I hear the engine roar to life and feel the ambulance lurch forward as we get back on the road on the way to the hospital.

I begin checking Sebastian’s vital signs. As I examine his chest for broken ribs, my eyes come to rest upon the gun again. With everyone’s safety in mind, I carefully remove the gun from its holster and move it to a safe distance. When I turn back to Sebastian, his eyes are open tracking my movements even as he lays immobile.

“All of your possessions will be returned to you,” I explain, holding his gaze.

He seems content with this, or he simply gives into exhaustion because his eyes slide shut.

I continue examining him, unbuttoning his shirt to get a better sense of the extent of his injuries. Despite the bruises and blood, a well-chiseled torso lies before me with abs most men would kill for.

Kill for.

I stare at him again, that battered face tells me nothing. Are the cops right? Is this the crown prince of the Russian mafia?

I start a drip of morphine to help ease his pain. Continuing my examination, I run my fingers down the length of his arm feeling for fractures and breaks. All I feel are hardened muscles rippling beneath his shirt.

My gloved hand slides down to his as I continue my assessment. When my fingers touch his palm, his hand gently encloses mine. Startled, I look at his face to find him staring back at me with those sapphire eyes.

“Please…hide it,” he says, it’s barely a whisper.

I frown at him. “What?”

“Can’t…find it,” he manages.

“Can’t find what?”

“Police…the gun.”

My stomach clenches. “You want me to hide the gun?”

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