Page 448 of Rosetti Family New York
But as I gather my purse and check that my luggage is loaded, my mind keeps circling back to that phone conversation.A trauma surgeon who keeps to himself. Former military with secrets. Someone Dom trusts despite—or maybe because of—whatever he's hiding.
They think they're sending me away to keep me safe, to let me play at being normal while some mysterious doctor keeps an eye on me. What they don't realize is that normal was never about having a babysitter. Normal means freedom. Independence. The chance to make my own choices without someone looking over my shoulder.
And the first choice I'm making? Ditching my assigned guardian before he even realizes I'm in the city.
I slide into the back of the black sedan, waving goodbye to my family through tinted windows. Matteo's hand is on Isabella's waist, protective and possessive. Leo and Eleanor are already planning their next adventure. Dom stands apart, watching everything with those calculating eyes that miss nothing.
They think they know what they're doing, sending their wild card sister to the quiet cousin in Chicago with a built-in babysitter. They think I'll meekly accept protection from some grumpy doctor who prefers solitude to conversation.
They have no idea I'm planning to disappear the moment I land.
I settle back against leather seats and smile to myself as the mansion disappears behind us. Chicago, here I come. And the first thing I'm doing is losing my mysterious surgeon before he even knows I've arrived.
Dom can arrange all the protection he wants. Doesn't mean I have to use it.
Poor bastard probably thinks he's getting a docile Rosetti princess who'll follow orders and stay out of trouble. Instead, he's getting me—and I'll be gone before he can say "trauma bay."
1 - Van
The eight-year-old's abdomen is torn open when the gurney crashes through the trauma bay doors. Her scared eyes find mine across the chaos—wide, trusting, begging me to fix what the world broke.
My hands move without conscious thought, years of training taking over.
"What do we have?" I bark, fingers already checking pulse points.
"Multi-vehicle collision, penetrating abdominal trauma, possible internal bleeding." The paramedic rattles off vitals as we transfer her to the table. Her whimper cuts through the controlled chaos of Chicago General's emergency room.
My jaw clenches. Phantom fire races through my wrists—sharp, sudden. For a split second, the beeping monitors become mortar fire, the smell of disinfectant becomes sand and blood.
But I'm not helpless now.
"OR two, now." The team falls into formation around me. This is what I do. This is what I'm good for.
The surgery takes thirty-nine minutes. Clean entry wound, minimal organ damage, textbook repair. The girl's vitals stabilize as I close. One saved. One more debt paid to the dead.
"That was incredible, Dr.Reyes!"
The voice belongs to Dr.Whitman, third-year resident, perpetually cheerful in a way that makes my teeth hurt. She bounces on her heels beside me as I strip off my gloves, her enthusiasm radiating like a physical force.
"The way you handled that hepatic laceration? I've never seen anyone work that fast. Could you maybe show me that suturing technique sometime? I've been practicing, but—"
"It's in the textbook."
"Right, but seeing it in person is so different! The way your hands moved—it was like watching an artist. Do you have any tips for—"
"Yes. Stop talking."
Her smile falters for exactly two seconds before rebounding with the resilience of someone who thinks persistence is a virtue. "Oh! Sorry, I know you're busy. Maybe we could grab coffee later and—"
"No."
"Or lunch? The cafeteria has this new—"
I turn to face her fully, letting her see exactly how much her cheerfulness grates against my nerves. "Dr.Whitman, the patient is stable. The procedure is complete. Your education is not my priority."
She blinks, that relentless optimism finally dimming. "I was just trying to—"
"Try somewhere else."
