Chapter 4 - The Unseen Debt
Up on the fourth floor, behind the glass panels of the central nurses' station, Delphine rubbed her tired eyes. Her shift had officially ended twenty minutes ago, but the mountain of post-op charting for Salvatore Marchetti’s admission required meticulous detail. Every milliliter of fluid, every drop of blood, every medication dosage had to be logged before she could even think about changing out of her stained scrubs.
The hospital was quiet at 4:15 a.m. The gentle hum of the ventilation system was the only sound echoing through the corridors, punctuated occasionally by the distant chime of an IV pump running low on saline.
A soft knock sounded on the wooden frame of the nurses' station door.
Delphine looked up, expecting to see Hannah or one of the night-shift residents coming to ask for a chart. Instead, she saw Renzo Caruso standing there. He had removed his blood-stained suit jacket, rolling up his white dress shirt sleeves to reveal thick, corded forearms covered in faint scars. He looked tired, the hard edges of his enforcer persona softened by exhaustion.
“You’re still here,” Renzo observed quietly, stepping into the enclosure.
“Charting,” Delphine replied, gesturing to the glowing screen of her computer terminal. “Can’t leave until the records match the intake logs. Hospital policy.”
Renzo pulled out a rolling chair and sat down uninvited on the other side of the desk. He placed a small, white paper bag and a cardboard cup of steaming black coffee next to her keyboard.
“Dr. Mercer said you saved his life tonight,” Renzo said without preamble. His voice lacked the arrogant bluster he had displayed in the lobby. It was heavy, grounded, and intensely sincere.
Delphine looked down at the coffee, then back up at Renzo. “I did my job. That’s what nurses do.”
“Most nurses would have panicked when they realized they were treating a man the police have a hundred active files on,” Renzo noted, leaning forward slightly. “Most people would have let him bleed out just to avoid the headache.”
“In this trauma bay, patients don’t come with police records, Mr. Caruso,” Delphine said, her voice steady and uncompromising. “They come with injuries. A bullet hole is a bullet hole whether it belongs to a banker, a dockworker, or a mafia boss. On my table, they all bleed the same red.”
Renzo stared at her for a long moment, a deep, respectful appreciation settling into his tired eyes. “You’ve got steel in your spine, Miss Rios. More than most men I know.”
“Steel is required when you work the night shift in Chicago,” she retorted dryly, finally taking a sip of the coffee. It was strong, hot, and exactly what she needed. She glanced down at the paper bag. “What’s this?”
“A pastry from that bakery down on 4th Street,” Renzo said. “The one that stays open all night. You missed your break. Eat it.”
Delphine looked at him suspiciously. “Are you trying to bribe me?”
Renzo let out a low, genuine chuckle—the first real laugh she had heard from him all night. “If I wanted to bribe you, Miss Rios, a pastry wouldn't cut it. Consider it a down payment on a debt.”
“I don’t want your debt,” Delphine said firmly, though she opened the paper bag anyway, revealing a warm, powdered Italian sfogliatella that smelled of vanilla and orange zest. “How is he?”
Renzo’s expression darkened slightly, the humor evaporating from the room. “He’s resting. Sedated. But he’s strong. He’ll wake up later this morning.”
“He’s going to need absolute bed rest for at least a week,” Delphine instructed professionally, slipping back into nurse mode. “No visitors except medical staff and you. His kidney function needs to be monitored closely for signs of internal swelling. If his urine output drops below thirty milliliters an hour, page me immediately—even if I’m off duty.”
Renzo raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be off duty in an hour. Are you telling me you’re going to worry about him at home?”
“I worry about all my critical patients, Mr. Caruso,” Delphine said, though her cheeks flushed slightly under his piercing gaze. She wasn't entirely sure if she was worrying about Salvatore Marchetti the patient, or the dark, intense gravity of the man himself.
“Call me Renzo,” he said softly, standing up from the chair. He reached into his pocket and placed a heavy, engraved silver business card on the corner of her desk. It had no company name, no logo, just a single direct phone number and his initials. “If anyone gives you trouble in this hospital—anyone at all, from the chief of surgery to the local precinct—you call that number. My phone is on twenty-four hours a day.”
May you like
Delphine looked down at the silver card, then up at Renzo. Before she could object, he gave a polite, respectful nod and walked out of the nurses' station, disappearing silently down the corridor.
She picked up the card, turning it over in her fingers. Little did she know, that silver card was about to become the only thing standing between her and a war that was about to explode inside the walls of St. Augustine Private Hospital.
