Chapter 2 - THE STAREDOWN IN THE DARK AND THE PRICE OF DEFIANCE
The silence in the master bedroom stretched so tight I could hear the rhythmic ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere down the hall. Dominic Rossi stared at me, his dark eyes burning with a feverish intensity that should have sent me running back down the mountain. Instead, I stood my ground, my fingers gripping the strap of my canvas duffel bag like a lifeline.
“You’ve got about ten seconds to reconsider that answer,” Dominic muttered, his voice gravelly and strained from pain. Every syllable sounded like broken glass scraping across concrete.
“My name is Nora Hayes,” I said, stepping closer to the massive mahogany bed without waiting for an invitation. “I am a registered nurse, not a servant you can intimidate into an early grave. If I leave now, my landlord throws my stuff onto the street. If I stay and let you bleed out because you’re too stubborn to accept medical help, I lose my license. Frankly, losing my license is worse than dealing with an overgrown mobster throwing a temper tantrum.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
For a terrifying second, I thought he might actually lunge across the mattress despite his injuries. His bare chest heaved with shallow, ragged breaths. The blood spreading across the white gauze on his right shoulder was darker now, thick and sluggish, indicating the infection had taken a serious hold. He was running a high fever; I could smell the sharp, metallic tang of infection mixing with his sweat and the lingering lemon polish from the hallway.
“You have no idea who you’re talking to,” he whispered, his gaze narrowing into slits.
“I know you’re a patient with an uncooperative attitude and a septic wound,” I replied, unzipping my bag and pulling out a pair of sterile latex gloves. “Now, lie back down before you tear your stitches completely open and bleed all over your expensive Egyptian cotton.”
“Get out, Nora,” he growled, using his left arm to push himself up slightly. He instantly regretted the movement; a sharp gasp hissed through his teeth, and his pale face turned an alarming shade of gray. He swayed, his uninjured shoulder hitting the headboard with a dull thud.
“Stubborn idiot,” I muttered under my breath, moving swiftly to his side.
Before he could push my hands away, I pressed my palm against his forehead. His skin radiated intense heat like a hot engine block. He tried to swat my hand away, but I caught his wrist with practiced ease—years in the downtown ER taught you how to subdue panicking, combative patients twice your size.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” he snarled, though his physical strength was clearly failing him.
“I’m touching you because your temperature is pushing one hundred and four degrees,” I said firmly, snapping my gloves into place with a sharp snap. “You have a localized infection turning systemic. If we don’t clean this wound and start IV antibiotics within the next twenty minutes, sepsis is going to shut your organs down. Do you want to die of an infection in a dark bedroom while your men stand outside looking miserable? Because that’s a pretty pathetic end for a legend.”
Dominic froze. His dark eyes locked onto mine, searching my face for fear, hesitation, or hesitation. He found none. I had survived double shifts, violent addicts, hospital administrators threatening my pension, and an eviction notice. A wounded mafia boss was just another Tuesday night.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his rigid posture relaxed against the dark pillows. He let out a long, shuddering breath that smelled faintly of scotch and fever sweat.
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“You’ve got a sharp mouth for someone who’s about to get fired,” he muttered, closing his eyes.
“Fire me after I clean the wound,” I retorted, reaching for the edge of the blood-soaked bandage. “Until then, shut your eyes and try not to pass out.”
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