Page 67 of My Best Friend Is Broken
And for the first time in months, the future doesn’t feel like something we have to survive.
It feels like something we get to build together.
Chapter twenty-two
Liam
Dr. Torrino’s office is nothing like what I expected from a “mafia doctor.” Instead of some back-alley clinic that reeks of desperation and questionable hygiene, it’s a proper medical facility tucked discreetly above a pharmacy in Bloomsbury. Clean, well-equipped, and surprisingly welcoming despite its unconventional clientele.
The doctor himself is a man in his seventies with silver hair, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and hands that move with the steady precision of someone who’s spent decades putting people back together. He greets Nicky like family, which, in the complex web of loyalty that defines this world, he probably is.
“Nicolo,” he says warmly, gesturing us toward the examination room.
“Dr. Torrino,” Nicky says, settling onto the examination table while I hover nearby, “this is Liam. He’s the one who did the initial first aid yesterday.”
The doctor’s eyebrows rise with interest as he begins examining Nicky’s bandaged arm. “Really? Well, let’s see what kind of work we’re dealing with.”
He unwraps the dressing I applied yesterday with careful efficiency, and I find myself holding my breath. I did my best with what we had available, but this is a real medical professional who probably has actual standards.
“Hmm,” Dr. Torrino murmurs, turning Nicky’s arm to examine the cut from different angles. “Very good. Clean, properly aligned, and these Steri-Strips are placed exactly where I would have situated them for temporary closure.”
Relief floods through me. “Really?”
“Really. Where did you learn first aid?”
The question catches me off guard. I hadn’t really thought about it as learned knowledge, just something I’d picked up out of necessity.
“Prison,” I say honestly. And it feels refreshing. This man is mafia, he is hardly going to judge me or be shocked. I can speak freely.
As if to prove my point, the doctor nods calmly, without so much as batting an eyelid.
“I worked in the medical bay for most of my sentence.” I continue. “Started as just cleaning and basic tasks, but the nurse practitioner there taught me quite a bit.”
Dr. Torrino’s hands still on Nicky’s arm, and he looks at me with renewed interest. “You enjoyed the work?”
“I did, actually.” It surprises me to realize how true that is. “I liked being able to help people. And I liked learning how the body works, how to fix things when they go wrong.”
“Prison medical work can be challenging,” Dr. Torrino says carefully, beginning to clean the wound with professional thoroughness. “Limited resources, difficult conditions. Challenging patients. It’s a good training ground for practical skills.”
I think about the medical bay at Brixton, understaffed, overcrowded, dealing with everything from minor injuries to overdoses to the kind of trauma that comes from men trapped in a violent environment with no escape. It had been challenging, but also oddly satisfying. One of the few places in that hellhole where I felt like I was doing something worthwhile.
“The nurse practitioner, Sarah, she was brilliant,” I find myself saying. “She could handle anything. Taught me to dress wounds, basic pharmacology, how to assess head injuries. Said I had good hands for delicate work.”
Dr. Torrino begins stitching Nicky’s arm with the kind of steady competence that comes from decades of practice. “Would you like to assist?”
The offer startles me. “I... are you sure?”
“Quite sure. Wash your hands thoroughly, and then come help me with this.”
I glance at Nicky, who simply smiles and nods. Apparently quite willing to be a guinea pig. He’s not even flinching from the first stitch he has received, so I guess he has acquired a high pain threshold and isn’t going to be bothered by my fumbling.
I scrub my hands at the small sink in the corner, nerves and excitement warring in my chest. It’s been weeks since I’ve done any medical work, but the moment I put on the disposable gloves Dr. Torrino points me to, it all comes flooding back. The focus, the satisfaction of precise work, the simple pleasure of helping someone heal.
“Hold the skin together here,” he instructs, positioning my hands. “That’s it. Perfect pressure.”
Working alongside him feels natural in a way that surprises me. Our hands move in easy coordination, hisexperience guiding my assistance, and I find myself falling into the familiar rhythm of medical work. The careful attention to detail, the quiet concentration, the sense of purpose that comes from doing something genuinely useful.
“Excellent,” Dr. Torrino says as he ties off the final suture. “You have very steady hands, and good instincts for the work.”
