Don’t You Dare Talk to Me Like That Again,” the Nurse With Glasses Said—Then the Mafia Boss Smiled

Dawn broke over the city with a pale, bruised light that filtered through the high windows of St. Jude Memorial Hospital, turning the cardiac floor into an armed encampment by 9:00 AM. Audrey pushed the medication cart down the hallway, sighing as she noticed two of Callum’s guards stationed outside the stairwell while hospital executives hovered nearby like nervous courtiers. When she pushed open the door to Patrick Ror’s private suite, she stopped dead in her tracks, her grip tightening on the aluminum tray. Callum sat comfortably in a leather armchair beside his father’s bed, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, looking less like a feared kingpin and more like a devoted son. Patrick Ror, an older man with sharp eyes that still held a remnant of past authority, was holding a delicate silver espresso cup.

Audrey marched straight to the bedside and extended her hand without a word. Patrick froze midway through lifting the cup to his lips, his eyebrows shooting upward in irritation.

“The coffee,” Audrey demanded, her tone leaving zero room for negotiation.

“It’s espresso,” Patrick protested, as if that medical exception justified the violation.

“Your heart doesn’t care about branding, Mr. Ror. Hand it over.”

Callum closed the laptop resting on his knee and looked between the stubborn nurse and his equally stubborn father.

“My father asked for it.”

“And I’m confiscating it,” Audrey replied, stepping closer until she loomed over the bed.

Patrick shot a pleading look toward his son, expecting the usual ruthless enforcement of his will. Instead, Callum reached across the bed, gently took the silver cup from his father’s fingers, and transferred it directly into Audrey’s outstretched palm.

Patrick stared at his son in utter betrayal.

“Traitor.”

“You raised me badly,” Callum muttered dryly, earning a sharp, appreciative glance from Audrey before she turned on her heel and walked out of the room with the contraband coffee safely secured.

The brief morning peace shattered abruptly an hour later when the elevator doors chimed and a new wave of visitors spilled onto the floor. Malcolm Ror, Callum’s older uncle, strode down the corridor with silver-streaked hair, an expensive tailored suit, and three heavy-set associates trailing in his wake. Audrey intercepted them right at the threshold of Patrick’s room, planting herself firmly in the doorway.

“One visitor at a time,” she stated, blocking their entrance.

Malcolm barely glanced down at her, treating her presence like a minor nuisance on a sidewalk.

“They’re family.”

“Then the family can take turns in the waiting area.”

Malcolm’s gaze hardened into something sharp and predatory. Behind Audrey, through the open door, Patrick shifted uncomfortably in his bed, and the heart monitor mounted on the wall began to tick upward from a resting 86 beats per minute to 98. Malcolm caught sight of Callum approaching from the end of the hall and raised his voice deliberately.

“Tell your nurse to move out of our way.”

Callum stopped beside Audrey, his expression freezing into a mask of pure glacial indifference.

“She isn’t my nurse,” Callum replied smoothly.