The Don's Doctor

Shame on You

Warning: This chapter contains a description of surgery.

Chiara's POV

Pressing the buttons on the intercom, my headlights illuminate the imposing gates ahead. Benedetti Estate. The name is infamous, and in this moment my worst assumptions are proving to be correct. Calculated breaths are little help against the spiraling suspicions that are twisting my panic into snakes of hissing doubt. What if my father wants to be involved in this? What father would give his daughter’s help to people he is afraid of? I’m staring at the gate with a hollow feeling that my life is a lie. What if my father works for the mafia, because he wants to?

“Who are you?” The daunting voice calls through the speaker.

“I’m the doctor you called for?” I replied with pure distain.

Silence.

“Where is Federico?”

“My father is in hospital, he’s had a heart attack. He asked me to come in his place. I’m a surgeon.”

I tell him only what I feel he needs to know, and in many ways I am hoping that they will decide that they don’t trust me. I’m hoping they will turn me away.

An even longer pause follows, and my hand is on the shift with the intention of placing the car in reverse, but I know I can’t reverse all that I have learnt tonight, and the things I need to ask my papa is likely to change everything between us. This thought is what keeps me hovering over the gears.

Mechanisms twirl, and the gate opens, uninvitingly. It doesn’t matter which way I go, my life won’t be the same after tonight. That seems obvious to me. A silent intercom makes me feel forgotten as my wheels crunch over the gravel drive. A block of a man waits in the driveway. He seems frighteningly giant. His hand curiously stretches out, I’m baffled, until I realise he is demanding my keys through non-verbal gestures. Unhappily, I give him my only means of escape. His hand remains extended and, dubiously, I offer him the burner phone too. Retrieving my leather bag, which seems unnecessary because I am adamant in my mind that I will not help them, I wait for further instructions via the games of charades that I am being forced to play with this unnatural bulk of muscle. Pointing to a smaller building tucked away at the side of the home, I make strides towards the designated point. They need me, so they won’t kill me, and this thought propels me forward with my head held high.

Groaning and crying, I distinguish the familiar sound of pain. The room looks exactly like a high-tech operating theater. My papa’s second workplace. In the corner of the room stands a man, evaluating everything like a hawk. He dominates the shadows and I realise that this is the Don, not the large man who escorted me in. This man projects a different kind of power. He fills the space and continues to expand with more than the physical eye can discern, rather like swallowing the air with his potent presence. He flicks his coat as if he is warm and the red lining catches my eye. It seems oxymoronic that he presents himself as both bull and matador, but the tightrope between animal and man seems to be the painful strain he walks across. The screaming has become more muffled, and I look down to see a young boy no older than eighteen. His injury is on his shoulder, the recognisable cylindered hole, and I can imagine that his energy is running out because of his blood loss.

“I know you,” the boy whispers softly.

I take a moment to look at him again, rather than his injury. He is recognisable, but I’m struggling to place his face.

“My brother was shot last year. You were the surgeon in the ER. You kept him alive long enough…so we could say goodbye.”

It was with those words that I remember him, unlocking another tragedy, another one of my failures. It was his brother’s face, Joey was his name, which is etched in my mind from when I closed his eyes for the last time.

“I remember. Don’t worry, you won’t meet Joey yet.” I comfort him, before he passes out.

I have no choice. I have to help this boy. I can’t be the doctor that couldn’t save two sons belonging to one mother.

I’m about to open the bag, when the first chuck of muscle halts me and points to the wall. Deciding to do as I am told for now, I storm over to the far wall, keeping my suspicious eyes fixed on him. He spins his finger in the air, indicating that I should face the wall, and I’m very aware of how dangerous this situation is before I turn reluctantly. He carefully lifts my wrists, indicating that I should press them against the wall above my head. My mouth is dry with terror.

“Stop!” The voice from the corner orders.

I hear the gentle click of his shoes as he approaches. I feel the heat from his body, before I feel the touch of his hand on my shoulder.

“We need to check you for wires. Don’t be scared.” He says in a gentle voice that is a stark difference to his earlier tone.

Gently, he pats down my arms and torso. Mindful of the placement of his hands and the discomfort I feel from his obtrusive proximity. Despite his gentle words and methodical approach, I still feel like a criminal, amid a group of criminals. When he steps back, the absence of the heat he exudes makes me shiver, or so I tell myself, too stubborn to admit I am scared.

I head over to the sink and remove my top and pants, keeping my back to the men. I’ve been wearing them all day, and what to keep the field are hygienic as possible. I retrieve the scrubs from my father’s bag and quickly wear them, putting my hair cap on, before scrubbing at the sink. When I turn, I can see that the two men are whispering to each other.

“Which one of you will aid me?” I ask hostilely, desperately trying to establish my authority.

The square of muscle steps forward, but is overtaken by the man I now identify as the boss. Before anything, he scrubs his own hands at the sink using the exact technique I used.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks.

“You’re willing to ask me now?”

“We know you’re not wearing a wire now. It’s safe to talk around you.” I can only nod.

“Fine. Can you place the face mask over my mouth, and then tie it at the back of my head?” I direct, and he follows my instructions with a very steady hand.

“Get one set of gloves open for me and snap them onto my hand and then do the same again with the second pair.” He, once again, diligently follows my instructions.

“What is the boy called?”

Silence.

“Don’t tell me you are afraid that I might have secreted a wire somewhere you haven’t looked, because that is a risk you’ll have to take!” I snap at him sharply.

“I don’t know his name. I don’t think I realised how young he was until you pointed it out.” He answers.

“Shame on you then.” I bite in response.

Attentive to the stage that I am up to, the concrete slab wheels over the equipment tray, and a cloth damp with a strong chemical that he continues to hold over the young boy’s mouth. I try to search my memory for his name, before I make the first cut. I see his mother’s face, her muted despair, the way she look at her younger son.

“Michael.” I utter. “His name is Michael Di Angelo.”

I want to ask for the ten blade, but something is missing. I feel Don Benedetti standing closely next to my back.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“Usually, I have Puccini playing when I operate, it feels strange without it.” I confess softly.

He walks over to his own phone and plays the opera. My mind instantly plans out the procedure. I noticed that the boss has put fresh gloves on. My father has trained them well, and that detail unnerves me. Reaching out, I pick up my own ten-blade and begin my work.

I tentatively roll him over, and the man of rock helps me. Unfortunately, there’s no exit wound, so I know it’s more than just a patch and repair. I make the cut, and reach for the retractor to expose the cavity. I can already see that the bullet has fragmented, the operation has another level of complexity, and I wonder how long the cloth can be used safely. Carefully, I take the forceps and pull out every piece of shrapnel. Hours drift by without me noticing, because the worst thing that could happen would be to leave a piece inside and create a higher chance of infection. Someone pats the sweat off my head, but I’m too focused to check who it was. I’m just grateful for the relief. After checking three times that the cavity is now clear of any foreign objects, I reach for the sutures.

“Your father usually uses the staples.” The man-giant interrupts, and my glare has him retreating.

“It’s a lazy way to close, and I’m not my father!” I insist.

Painstakingly, I make each stitch as small as possible to minimise scarring, only to realise afterwards that the boy might want to have a scar as a badge of honour. Too late now, besides, I won’t allow him to celebrate his stupidity.

Stepping back from the operation table that now looks like a butcher’s bench, I consciously take my first deep breath. I’ve broken more laws than I care to consider. I’m uninsured, and I’ve had no trained staff to speed up the procedure. I didn’t want to come, I didn’t want to operate, and if it was the boss or the block of brute next to him, I’d like to think I would have refused, like I had planned, but I saved a boy’s life today, and there is some consolation in that fact.

“Why didn’t you take him to hospital?” I ask both of them, marveling at the indifference to Michael’s youth.

“He’s too inexperienced, we weren’t sure if he would sing or not when the police questioned him.” An old man answers, as he enters from the doorway, hobbling in.

“If he had, it would have been no less than you all deserve!” I reply sharply.

Taking off my scrubs and leaving them on the floor by the sink, I watch as the younger men avert their eyes and place Michael on a more comfortable bed, all except the boss. I turn on the tap water and watch as the steam fills the sink. Then I scour every surface of my skin from nail bed to elbow. Pain is all I can feel, and I relish the distraction. I am going to lose my license over this. I will never work again if I don’t tell the police, and the truth in that thought makes me want to vomit, because if I do tell the police I know these men will kill me and my father. Gargantuan hands cover my own, and I see the water is turned off. Turning, I see the boss. He doesn’t seem as frightening anymore, but I suppose there is something of a numbing effect to watch ten years of study washed away by one stupid act. My hands are trembling, which isn’t unusual. After surgery, my body is letting the adrenaline fall. Four hours, I’ve manipulated the restoration of human life. Some of my colleagues adopt a power complex, but I’ve always found it humbling. My hands determine the futures of my patients. It’s brutal and beautiful in equal measure. He doesn’t know that about me though, so he holds them until they stop. He takes his jacket and pulls it around my bare shoulders, and I notice that we are alone with the patient.

“From now on, you will be our new surgeon. We can pay you for your services. You are more skilled than your father,” he commands.

I’m revolted. In a moment of sheer fury, I push him away from me.

“Is that how you tempted my father? With pieces of silver? You can take your blood money. I won’t be tricked into your service. I came here to tell you that whatever you have over my father you are to consider it settled. You have to let him go. If I hadn’t known that child, I would never have operated for you. Everything about you is evil.” He almost smiles, and I hate him even more for it.

“You should speak to your dad, rather than make assumptions.”

Withdrawing like an incomplete nightmare that you are sure will return, he leaves me in the mini-theatre with the patient. I notice that clean clothes have been provided: leggings and a large black shirt. Pulling a chair next to the patient, the only thing I can do right now is monitor him until he is out of the woods, and manage his pain medication. Sleep soon claims me, and I dream of a woman trapped in a darkened room with a bull, who scrapes his hoof along the floor, watching carefully for my response. I find I am both scared and exhilarated.