His steel-gray eyes fix on my face and he slowly stands, though he remains wordless. His jaw flexes as his eyes drift down, taking me in. There’s not much to see in these scrubs, but my body heats nonetheless.
His thick, dark hair curls over his collar, and his neatly trimmed beard covers half his face. I can’t make out much of his body, either. He wears a baggy duffel coat with a flannel shirt underneath and jeans. There’s a rip at the collar of the shirt, the top button gone, the second hanging by a thread, revealing a dark swath of ink at the top of his sternum.
He’s a big guy—almost as big as Maddox—yet despite my racing heart, I don’t feel threatened. Just vaguely turned on by his sheer, masculine presence.
“Nicolo,” he repeats, drawing my name out in a gravelly voice as he meets my eyes again. The sound sends goosebumps cascading down my body. The voice definitely belongs to a member of the Santos family. He sounds just like Maddox.
His eyes narrow for a beat and he tilts his head as if he’s waiting for me to do something. Then he scratches his beard and nods. “Yeah, I’m family. From, ah, out of state. Cousin. Just stopped by to bring well wishes to Aunt Marci and the rest of the Santos brood. I missed them at Christmas. It’s a shame, what happened.” His tone is oddly forced, but he sounds serious enough when he asks, “What can you tell me? Was it trauma-related?”
I raise both eyebrows at this question because I was just contemplating the cause before I walked in. Glancing at the woman on the ventilator, I give a careful nod. “Her scans did reveal signs of past head trauma, which likely contributed to her stroke. Are you very close with the family? Perhaps you can shed more light on her history. Give a clearer picture. No detail is too small.”
I’ve gotten adept at fishing for information from patients, and even though it won’t help Marcella, I’d love confirmation of my suspicions. Her kids weren’t particularly forthcoming, but if their father abused them too, their unwillingness to speak out is no surprise. An outside observer might be more willing to share.
But willingness isn’t exactly what I see in Mason’s eyes. A cold rage transforms his gray irises to daggers that slice straight through me. I realize dangerous is far too tame a word to use for this man.
Before he can answer, a chorus of angry male voices rise from outside. I turn to look, grimacing when I see the patient’s husband, Julian Santos, nose to nose with a distinguished-looking Latino gentleman in a tailored suit. He’s red-faced and yelling at the man to stay the fuck away from Marcella while Maddox tries to hold him back.
I recognize the other man too, but it takes a second because I’ve never seen him angry before. As one of the UCLA Medical Center’s most generous donors, Arturo Flores has visited the ICU on occasion, but he’s always coolly collected. He’s far from emotionless now, snarling accusations at Julian just as fast as Julian spits them at him.
“This is your doing, Santos!” I catch before Flores slips into Spanish. I only make out a smattering of the ensuing rant. I’m pretty sure he just called Julian a piece of shit who isn’t worthy of kissing Marcella’s feet, but without checking a translator, I can’t be sure.
As Maddox struggles to hold his father back, his eyes dart to the room. It occurs to me that he probably cares more about keeping Julian away from Marcella than about the fight that’s likely to happen if he lets go.
Instinctively, I slip to the door and head out to try to help. The man is clearly drunk, and it’s barely two hours past dawn. Two burly hospital security officers arrive then and grab Julian by both arms.
“Sir! We’re going to have to ask you to leave if you don’t calm down.”
“What the fuck? He’s the one who doesn’t belong here!” Julian yells, spitting at Flores. “Haul his ass away! She’s my wife! I just want to see my wife!” He begins to sob, but his cries fall on deaf ears and Flores sneers as security disappears out the door, practically dragging Julian along.
The entire staff has paused to watch the drama, only a few keeping up a pretense of working. Once the door closes behind the pleading man, there’s a collective exhale. Flores straightens his suit and gives Maddox a nod.
“I apologize for my outburst. Your father and I have never gotten along.”
Maddox rests his hands on his hips and shakes his head. “He had it coming, as usual.”
Flores turns toward me and steps closer as if he intends to walk right through me into Marcella’s room. I hold a hand up.
“I’m sorry, sir. Only family are allowed in.” I tilt my chin and look him in the eyes, hoping I don’t need to say that I know who he is and that he definitely isn’t family.
His eyes flash with anger as he sizes me up. “I funded half this floor, and you’re telling me I can’t visit a friend who’s a patient here?”
I stand my ground. “Not today, sir. This is the ICU, and while you may get a pass to be in this ward thanks to your donations, I can’t let you into any patients’ rooms. You’ll have to wait until she’s recovered enough to be moved out of intensive care.”
His nostrils flare, but he finally nods and walks away. I meet Maddox’s eyes and he gives me an appraising glance, then a nod, before he casts another look toward Marcella’s room and curses, rushing past me into the room.
I turn, wondering what he could be upset about, and see that
