Page 512 of Rosetti Family New York
Or he could already be unconscious, the Torrinos moving faster than our intelligence suggested.
Ring.
"Pick up," I whisper, my earlier fury mixing with desperate fear. "Come on, Van. Answer the damn phone."
Ring.
But it just keeps ringing, each unanswered tone ratcheting my panic higher. He has no idea what's coming. No warning that his noble sacrifice is about to get him killed or worse. The Torrinos won't just hurt him—they'll use him to send a message to our family.
Ring.
The call goes to voicemail. His professional voice, clinical and controlled: "Dr.Reyes. Leave a message."
I end the call without speaking, my hand trembling as I lower the phone. The room feels too quiet, the weight of what's about to happen pressing down like a physical thing.
"He's not answering," I say unnecessarily.
Dom's already moving, pulling out his own phone to mobilize resources. But I can see it in his eyes—Chicago is far, the Torrinos are close, and Van has no idea death is coming for him.
All because he thought sending me away would keep me safe. All because he couldn't accept that I chose the danger along with the love.
My sunshine nature has never felt more like fire.
25 - Van
Sixteen hours of surgery, and all I can think about is her goddamn coffee humming.
My hands move through the post-surgical routine on autopilot—scrubbing until my skin burns pink, documenting patient charts, checking on trauma victims who'll heal clean. The trauma bay finally quiets, machines beeping their steady rhythms. Everything's felt wrong since I sent her away.
She's safe in New York by now, wrapped in family protection where she belongs. Away from me, from the violence that shadows men like me.
My chest feels scraped clean from the inside. Like I've performed surgery without anesthesia, removed something vital, and can't stop the hemorrhaging.
The parking garage stretches empty at this hour, oil stains on concrete creating abstract patterns under flickering fluorescents. My footsteps echo off walls tagged with faded graffiti. Exhausted doesn't begin to cover it.
I'm thinking about the way she arched her back when I bound her wrists with medical tape. The particular shade of green her eyes turned when she whispered "Sir." The weight of her in my bed, how she made my sterile apartment feel like something worth coming home to.
My phone buzzes. Emergency callback from the trauma bay.
"Dr.Reyes, we need you back immediately. Multi-vehicle accident coming in, victims critical. Highway pile-up, at least six cars involved."
I turn back toward the hospital entrance. Lives on the line always take priority.
The medical team waiting by the service elevator looks professional—scrubs in the right shade of surgical green, credentials clipped to pockets. But their eyes are too steady. No exhaustion from a sixteen-hour shift. No adrenaline spike from incoming trauma.
"Dr.Reyes?" The lead physician approaches, his walk too smooth. He's holding a syringe, clear liquid catching the light. "We need to get you prepped for emergency surgery. Lucia Torrino sends her regards."
The needle finds my neck before my exhausted reflexes catch up.
Sedative floods my system like ice water in my veins. Vision fracturing at the edges, legs suddenly made of wet cement. My surgeon's hands lie useless as they guide my collapsing body onto a gurney.
"Careful with him," one says, adjusting the straps. "Lucia wants him conscious for the main event."
Through the chemical haze, Lucia Torrino steps from behind a concrete pillar. She's wearing surgical scrubs that have never seen an OR, strategic blood spatters painted on.
"Hello, Van." Her south side Chicago accent turns consonants into weapons. "Did you really think Vinny's death would go unanswered? That sending your little plaything away would protect either of you?"
The gurney wheels squeak against the floor. Every fluorescent burns into my retinas like surgical lamps. Lucia's voice follows me into darkness: "Give my regards to your nightmares, Doctor."
