2

Estina

Behind me, Fidelis's booming voice came out over the din of men shouting, nurses and techs urging patients to behave, and cops questioning whoever they could.

From this man to the next, I moved with such haste that the shift passed in a blur. I was all over, calling out orders, asking for cooperation, and trying to assess the most emergent cases of gunshot wounds, open lacerations from the explosion, concussions, and broken bones.

"Get him to a CT, stat," I told a nurse as I backpedaled out of a room, peeling off my gloves only to go to another room and put on a fresh pair to assess another patient. I furrowed my brow, certain that this argumentative and hostile man lying there bleeding from his face and chest would have just as much, if not more, internal injuries with how close he seemed to have been near the explosion in the restaurant.

Before I could turn and face forward down the hall, though, someone knocked into me and sent me crashing to the floor.

I landed with a deep oof, all the air pushed out of my lungs with the impact of the drop. Breaking the fall with my hands slapped onto the floor, I winced and ignored the instant pain of smacking down so unexpectedly.

Dammit!

Amidst the mayhem of the shift and the harried urgency we were all working under, I was almost ready to scowl at my mistake. That it was only my fault to not look where I was going and collide with someone. Nothing good would come from walking and not facing forward.

But that wasn't the case here. It wasn't my fault. Even if I had been looking ahead and watching where I was going, this tall, ragged-looking man in a suit would've struck me down. His beady eyes were locked on me and his lips lifted in a snarl. Foreign insults came from his mouth, but I didn't need a translator to understand. A man only looked at a woman like that when he wanted to hurt her. To punish and lash out. The stink of booze wafted from him, cutting through the usual stench of disinfectant. As he wobbled to swing one leg back, I held my breath and frantically scrambled for the inevitable.

He was aiming to kick me, and I wouldn't be fast enough to get up.

All these men seemed so deranged, criminal and violent. Italians? Russians? I couldn't tell. But they didn't seem like civilians, like what Fatima guessed.

This man wasn't right in the head, either angry about the bombing, still intent on wreaking havoc, or so drunk and strung-out that he was oblivious to his behavior. All that mattered in this precise moment was that he'd singled me out as the target of his fury.

Tensing at the threat of his shoe striking me, I gritted my teeth and strained to get up.

But the hit never came. Other impacts of flesh-on-flesh did. Another man in a suit came to my defense. Showing up out of nowhere in the chaotic crowded department, this broad-shouldered man rushed to intercept the kick. With deftly delivered punches and elbowed jabs, he rendered the other guy defenseless. Instead of slurring at me and kicking me while I was down, he sat on the floor now, groaning, holding his side, and closing his eyes in pain.

Breathing out in a rush, I blinked quickly and fought to get up, to get off the floor where I'd be trampled or worse.

My God. This is a nightmare.

Failing to get my bearings quickly, I mentally chastised myself for being so sheltered to the gritty crime of New York.

"Are you all right?" the man asked.

His voice was curt, but not unkind. Impatient, like he had too much to do. Worried, like he gave a damn whether I was injured. He sounded older, but Americanized and not confusing me with a too-rapid Italian accent or a heavy brogue of a Russian inflection.

As he extended his hand to me to help me off the floor, more shouts sounded from the other end of the hallway. Staring at his polished shoes that bore stains of still-drying blood, I furrowed my brow and banished all the fleeting thoughts of gratitude in my mind.

He was with them, somehow.

He was one of them, all these deviants causing so much commotion and violence in my department.

"Fuck." He growled it, distracted by the sounds of the fighting at the other end of the hall.

"Dr. Donovon!"

I craned my neck to see Fatima rushing toward me. With her approach, the older man spun on his heel and darted in the direction of the newest fight.

"Are you okay? What happened?" Fatima flung her ponytail over her shoulder as she crouched to assist me.

Taking her hand, I shrugged off the incident and got up. I brushed off my pants and frowned at the man. "I'm all right."

As if!

I doubted I'd be "all right" until I got done with this shift and was at my new apartment to drink a stiff shot of gin to calm my nerves. "He bumped into me and that man..." I scrunched my face, turning to see if I could make out the man who'd saved me from a drunken man's kick. I hadn't seen his face, though, so I had no clue which suited thug he was.

"One of the mobsters?" Fatima asked.

Oh, bloody hell... My eyes bugged out. "Mobsters?"

She chuffed once and shook her head as she urged me to get back into the swing of business. "Sometimes, I forget you're from a whole 'nother world, Doc."

Mobsters. Oh, my God... I wanted to think that I'd seen it all, but I doubted it. This simply wasn't the kind of workplace danger I was used to. Yet. Walking briskly with her, I listened to which patients were more priority. I nodded, sticking with her so I wouldn't get lost in the crowd again. It wasn't right to want a coworker with me for protection, but I wasn't going to risk it.

We worked together, moving from one patient to another, trying to reclaim some order and balance. When the cops showed up, it was more chaotic, but I deferred to the other attendings and residents who were much more desensitized to this kind of a night.

For hours, we all worked as a team to move some to surgery and others to intensive care. Delegating patients and cases made everything much more streamlined after the initial rush of the large intake process. But still, I was shaken by it all. The shouting and fighting. Not understanding what was said. Then falling and almost being kicked.

"That was wild," I commented at the end of the shift. Fidelis and Fatima stood at the nurses' station, going over the reports.

Fidelis shrugged, not looking up from his chart. "It's just another night with New York's finest acting up," he replied sarcastically.

I raised my brows at his dismissive tone. He was classically handsome and had an excellent reputation as a doctor, but something about his attitude toward the night's events gave me pause.

"Have you treated those men before?" I asked, catching myself from repeating the label Fatima had used, that they were mobsters.

He shrugged and glanced up. Spotting me watching him, he smiled slowly. "Damn, Estina. You could try to lose that bewildered expression, huh?" He elbowed me playfully as he left the station. "I bet you've seen your fair share of fights across the pond."

"Sure. Of course, I have." I spent a couple of years in the ER over there too. "But⁠—"

"It's just part of life here." He shook his head, walking with me down the hall, less crowded and calmer now. He yawned. "Those Russians always cause a huge backup when they pick a fight on the streets."

"The Russians?" I furrowed my brow as I stuck my hands in my pockets, easily keeping up with his quick stride since I wasn't that short. Our shoes squeaked over the floor as I considered what he'd said. "The ones who spoke in Russian seemed stable. But the Italians all seemed high and drunk." Like the one who'd almost kicked me.

"Nah." He frowned at me. "I didn't notice them giving anyone trouble."

I huffed a laugh. Um, no. They sure did. Unable to shake the impression that Fidelis's indifference about the violence seemed to carry a prejudice, I stopped at the intersection of the hallway, not heading his way.

"Don't worry too much about it, lass," he said with that teasing smile. I'd given up the first week of being here with telling him that was more of an Irish endearment. He might be a wise doctor, but that didn't necessarily have to mean he knew the difference between Britain proper and Ireland.

I nodded weakly and lifted my hand to wave him off as he exited and bade me goodnight.

Don't worry about it?

I shook my head, turning back to finish my shift. He might not be bothered by the violence. He might be immune to it.

I, however, lacked the confidence that I'd ever be okay or accepting of such criminals running through my department, making threats and causing hell.

On a full moon night or not.

I'd never stoop so low as to familiarize myself with lowlife criminals like the ones who'd disrupted my shift tonight.

Sure, Fidelis. Don't worry about it.

That was most definitely easier said than done.