Page 59 of Broken Vows

I follow her into the break room, noting how she positions herself near the door—ready to run if necessary. The woman who used to share coffee and gossip with me now looks at me like I'm carrying a contagious disease.

"Elena, whatever you've heard?—"

"Is it true?" she interrupts, her voice sharp with accusation. "Are you involved with Vincent Russo?"

I could lie, deflect, give her the same sanitized version of the truth she already has a hint of. Instead, I meet her stare directly.

"Yes."

She flinches as if I'd slapped her. "Jesus Christ, Melinda. Do you have any idea what you've brought into this hospital?"

"I've brought nothing?—"

"Bullshit." Her voice rises, then drops to a harsh whisper when she remembers where we are.

"Two weeks ago, Joey Castellano shows up in our ER with bullet holes. Yesterday, security found three men in the parking garage with no legitimate reason to be here. This morning, I had FBI agents asking about your schedule and patient load."

My stomach drops.

FBI involvement means this situation has escalated beyond family politics into federal territory. "What did you tell them?"

"Nothing. Yet." Elena sets down her clipboard with deliberate force. "But I can't protect you if you're putting patients at risk."

"I would never?—"

“I understand that. But your very presence here could put everyone at risk.” Her voice carries the weight of friendship dying in real time. "These people, your families—they don't distinguish between combatants and civilians."

Before I can respond, the trauma alert sounds. Multiple casualties incoming, ETA three minutes.

Elena and I exchange a look that carries too much professional partnership for us to continue this discussion now, then move toward the ambulance bay.

The first stretcher through the doors carries a child—maybe seven years old, unconscious, blood soaking through makeshift bandages around his chest. The paramedic's report cuts through me like glass.

"GSW to the chest, possible lung involvement. Kid was playing in a playground when shooting started. Territorial dispute between local crews."

I take control immediately, professional instincts overriding everything else. "Trauma bay two. Get me chest X-ray, type and cross for four units, and call surgery."

As we work, cutting away the child's Spider-Man t-shirt, starting IVs, assessing damage, I can't stop thinking about my own baby. Four months from now, this could be my child caught in the crossfire between families who value territory more than innocent lives.

"Pneumothorax," I announce, studying the X-ray. "Prep for chest tube insertion."

Elena assists with mechanical precision, but I feel the distance between us—professional courtesy replacing genuine partnership.

The child's mother arrives, screaming in Spanish, demanding answers I can't give her. How do you explain that her son was shot because men like my father and Vincent's family can't resolve disputes without violence?

"He's stable," I tell her after the chest tube is placed and monitors show improving oxygen saturation. "The surgery will repair the damage, but he's going to be okay."

She collapses against the wall, sobbing with relief. I want to comfort her, to promise that this won't happen again, but the words stick in my throat. In my world, it always happens again.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur of routine cases—heart attacks, overdoses, minor traumas that seem insignificant after the shooting victim.

But I notice things I've never paid attention to before: which staff members avoid me, who whispers when I pass, how many of my colleagues suddenly have urgent business elsewhere when I approach.

By six p.m., I'm exhausted and emotionally drained. I'm changing out of my scrubs when Lisa, one of the newer nurses, approaches hesitantly.

"Dr. Mason? Can I speak with you privately?"

I follow her into the supply closet, noting her nervous glances toward the door. She's young, maybe twenty-five, with the earnest dedication of someone who still believes medicine can save the world.

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