The Don's Doctor

A Stranger In My Father’s Skin.

Chiara's POV

Never one to take advantage, I pay for my parking ticket and stick it to my car window. I have an hour before my shift in the ER is supposed to start, it had been my intention to ask for personal leave, but the events from last night have pushed it down the priority list. Luckily, I am only covering somebody’s later start so I won’t have to be here all day. Leaving my stuff in my locker, I throw my white coat on to save time, and let my lanyard drape around my neck. It is so old that my clasp has broken and it is currently being held together by a safety pin, but once again fixing that was another job for another day. Apprehensively, I open the door to my papa’s room.

“He called?” My father asks me, eagerly, sat up in bed, skimming the newspaper.

I nod.

He senses my reluctance to share in his excitement. It is so clear now that he was never coerced into helping. He did this of his own volition, and he is so addicted to the thrill, he let me go in his place.

“I wish that you didn’t have to know. It is the only secret I have ever kept from you. One day I will tell you why, but for now you need to know that it is a good thing. It was a promise that I made to your mother when she died, and you have been able to be part of it too. I’ll never regret helping them. I’m so proud of you!” He says with glee.

He is a stranger in my father’s skin.

“All my life, I have been following in your footsteps. Becoming one of the most promising surgical trauma residents that this hospital has ever trained. I’m three months away from becoming an attending, and you are proud of me because I committed a crime by aiding a criminal?” The outrage I feel make my words icy.

My father is shocked to see me like this, but I am equally shocked looking back at him. Whatever I had been expecting this morning when I saw him, this isn’t it. I’d hoped they had some influence over him that I had broken. I had pictured coming to him and celebrating that I had managed to free him from the hold that they had on him. I’d pictured Don Vincent as a devil that I had wrestled with all night to free my father from his debt to them. Instead, I learn that my father has been offering them his wrists, while they chained him to their immoral life.

“It’s over now, father. I’ve told them never to call on either of us again, and they have agreed.” I inform him, and see his face drop.

The door hits my bum, and I realise I had been stepping back from his bed, and the furious expression on his face. I don’t think he recognises the horror on my own face, as he is too busy shouting about the virtues of the biggest crime family in New York.

“What have you done? Vincent was raised to be the golden prince. We were all sure that he would be the emperor that brought equilibrium to all the families, but when his parents died we all grieved the loss of his reason. He is a good man, and he will remember who he is soon. Grief has changed his default setting into attack mode, but he can change. He is good!” My father defends him.

Was it supposed to endear me to the man? The man with bloodied knuckles, who watched while I stitched up the bullet hole in a young man, would never seem good to me.

“I saved a seventeen year old boy last night, father. Good men, don’t send children into wars! I’ll check on you in my break, I have to work now” I tell him, a little lie to escape this room.

“I’m proud of you, my star.” He calls to me, as I escape through the door.

He’s proud of me for all the wrong reasons, and I can’t be more ashamed of myself, I could lose my job over this. It was a stupid risk to take, I should have gone to the cops this morning and told them the truth.

Eager to throw myself into work and worry about my life later, I pick the first chart from the box, and call out the name written down at the busy reception area.

‘Niccolo Barone!” I shout.

A sizable man stands up, walks towards me, his limbs seem longer than his body, and I’m already considering sending him for some exams. The more pressing issue is the considerable amount of glass that has embedded it’s self into his skin, the swelling and bruising that is causing his features to be swallowed by the additional fluid. The scabbing process has already begun, which is going to make extraction more painful for him.

“Good afternoon, I’m doctor Chiara. Please could you follow me to room six, and I’ll assess your injury.”

He smiles as best he can, and I can see him telling his friend to remain seated.

“What caused this injury, and is there any other injuries that you would like to make me aware of?” I ask, as I click my pen to fill in his history.

“A bar fight, doc. A whiskey glass was smashed into my face…it was my best crystal too. There’s some bruising on my body, but my face took the worst of it.” He laughs at his own joke.

“I can see you haven’t sought out medical attention immediately, this means that your risk of infection will be higher. I can arrange for the police to come and take a statement about the incident while you are here. This has obviously been a very violent attack.” I offer, while wondering if I could snap his broken nose back into place, or if I should call for the orthopaedics to assess it first.

His smile pauses my assessment for the moment.

“I had to see a friend in the area before I came to the hospital. I called into the police station on my way here. I prioritised the justice over my injuries. To be honest, I’d just like to go home to my family without scaring my children, so do what you can, doc.” He smiles through his explanation, but I can hear the insincerity in his voice, and I can read it in his eyes.

I know he’s lying.

Nevertheless, I inject some pain relief into his arm, through the IV that the nurse has left me, and begin my work. I feel the break in his nose and it seems to be clean. Warning him of the potential discomfort I snap his nose back into place, it will need an X-ray, but I’m confident that I have realigned it. He grunted, but otherwise tolerated the pain well. Pulling the stool over for the complex task of removing the glass, I lower his bed and pull the light down to the side of his cheek. It’s an array of wounds, some are deep and others are superficial. The glass sparkles, and I get lost in the process as I pick out every last bit of sadistic shine. When the last of the glass is in the metal bowl, I stitch up the biggest of the cuts, trying to avoid leaving scars. I ask if he will wait for the plastic surgeon to arrive, but he claims he’s lost more than his good looks, and isn’t too concerned.

Tilting his head up, I once again examine that the area is clear, proximity is an unfortunate outcome of being a doctor, but thankfully the patient makes no comment as I start to stick the strips of plaster onto the cuts that are minor, but might need further care. Satisfied, I go to sit back down on my stool and finish the notes. Abruptly, he pinches my lanyard between his thumb and finger.

“Chiara Ricci, that name sounds familiar.” He comments.

I shrug thinking nothing of it. He drops it, quickly. There must be many people living with that surname. It’s not uncommon.

“My father is a GP. His practise is called Ricci’s Medical Centre. Maybe you have driven past it?” I tell him, as a way of making conversation.

“Maybe,” he answers, seeming interested.

I’m almost done with my patient, and I apply the last of the dressings. I reach down for my script pad, to prescribe some antibiotic cream, smiling that the patient’s care is complete, and I can soon move on. I was up to the final letter of my instruction, when his hand darted towards my breast bone with frightening speed. Instinctively, I pull away from the danger, but I realise that I’m trapped as he has gripped onto my lanyard. In the time it has taken me to realise what is happening, he has twisted it around his hand, and I can feel it cutting into the skin on my neck. Pulling to break the clasp I notice that my safety pin is cold against my neck. It won’t break off. I claw at his hand as he brings me closer to his face. His teeth are stretched out into a grotesque smile.

“I know your name, your father is the doctor to the Benedetti family. We never knew he had a daughter here in the city. I guess in a few more moments he won’t.”

With the air getting stuck in my throat, like a tunnel that is collapsing in slow motion, I can see ink splashes exploding across my vision. Searching for anything to defend myself with, I realise my equipment tray is scattered on to the floor. My eyes are getting heavier. My knee bends beneath me, and for a moment it feels like I’m daggling from his grip. I can’t stand back up. I’ve forgotten how to use the strength in my legs. My eyes are closing. I know I can’t swallow, the force on my throat is stopping me. The last thing I hear is the click of metal on metal, and a sharp intake of breath.