Page 46 of Veil of the Past
Romiro
You’re busy saving lives, huh? Good thing I have nine of them.
I roll my eyes at the message, but my smile widens. I’m about to type a snarky reply when I hear my name being called from down the hall.
“Doctor Visconti!” It’s Doctor Harris again, his tone urgent, pulling me back to the present. I slip my phone away and turn to face him.
“Yes, Doctor Harris?” I ask, moving toward him, my expression shifting back to professional mode.
He holds out a chart to me, his face serious. “I need you to check on a new admit in Room 218. Possible sepsis, post-op complications from another hospital. We’re getting the lab results now, but I’d like you to get a sense of their condition.”
I nod, taking the chart from his hands and glancing over the notes. The details are sparse, but enough to get a picture of what I’m walking into. “Got it,” I say, my mind already switching gears, filing away thoughts of Romiro for later.
I head down the hall toward Room 218, feeling the adrenaline pick up, sharpening my focus. The halls are a blur of blue scrubs and white coats, the low hum of medical monitors and hushed conversations weaving through the air. I pass by a window, catching a glimpse of the sun climbing higher in the sky, its light reflecting off the glass in a bright, blinding arc. I blink, refocusing, feeling the familiar rhythm of the hospital settle back into my bones.
I push open the door to Room 218, stepping inside with a deep breath. The room is dimly lit, the blinds half-drawn, and I see a woman lying in the bed, her face pale, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead. Her breathing is shallow, her chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven intervals. I quickly scan the room, noting the IV lines, the machines beeping steadily beside her, the half-empty bag of fluids hanging on the stand.
“Good morning,” I say softly, moving to the foot of the bed, my eyes on the patient. “I’m Doctor Visconti. How are you feeling?”
She blinks up at me, her eyes glassy with fever. “Not… not great,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, strained with the effort.
I nod, stepping closer, reaching for the stethoscope draped around my neck. “I’m going to take a quick listen, alright? Just breathe as normally as you can for me.”
She nods weakly, and I lean in, placing the cool metal of the stethoscope against her chest, listening to the rapid, uneven thumping of her heart, the shallow wheeze of her breaths. I frown slightly, adjusting the stethoscope, trying to get a clearer sound.
Her skin is hot to the touch, the fever radiating off her in waves, and I feel the pulse in her wrist—fast, too fast. My mind runs through possibilities, potential diagnoses, my brain working like a machine, moving from one thought to the next.
“How long have you been feeling like this?” I ask, keeping my voice calm, steady, my eyes on her face.
“Since… since yesterday,” she murmurs, her eyelids fluttering. “I thought it was just the… the flu, but…”
She trails off, her voice fading, and I squeeze her hand gently. “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “You’re in the right place now. We’re going to take care of you.”
I turn to the nurse beside me, my tone brisk, efficient. “Let’s get another set of labs, blood cultures, chest X-ray, and start her on broad-spectrum antibiotics. And call for a respiratory consult—she’s showing signs of distress.”
The nurse nods, moving quickly, and I turn back to the patient, offering a reassuring smile. “You’re going to be fine,” I say, though my mind is already racing through the next steps, the tests, the treatments.
She nods weakly, her eyes fluttering closed, and I step back, letting the nurse take over. I make a few more notes in the chart, jotting down my observations, my recommendations, my brain already moving ahead to the next case, the next task.
But even as I move through the routine, my mind slips back to Romiro, to the way he looked at me in the rain, his eyes so intense, so full of something I can’t quite name. I think about the way he held me afterward, his hands steady, his voice a soft murmur in the storm, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, we’re finding our way to something real.
I push the thought away, turning back to the work in front of me, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over my shoulders again. There’s still so much to do, so many people counting on me. But for now, at this moment, I feel okay. I feel… enough.
And that’s something. That’s more than I’ve felt in a long time.
22
ROMIRO
The gravel crunches under my shoes as I step out of the car, the mansion looming ahead of me like a specter in the night. The rain has stopped, leaving everything wet and glistening, and the lights from the grand entrance reflect off the damp stone, casting strange shadows against the towering columns.
Nicolo’s place is just like him—cold, imposing, impenetrable. The kind of place you don’t get too comfortable in, the kind of place that keeps its secrets close, its doors always ready to slam shut. I glance up at the massive wrought-iron chandelier hanging from the high ceiling of the foyer. It sparkles like a web spun from glass, delicate but somehow dangerous like one wrong move could bring the whole damn thing crashing down.
I take a deep breath and push the door open, stepping inside. The air smells like polished wood and old money. My footsteps echo off the marble floors, and I can hear Nicolo's voice murmuring to someone in the next room. As I get closer, I catch a glimpse of him through the open door to the study, standing by the poker table, a glass of something dark and expensive in his hand.
He looks up as I enter, his expression unreadable, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. He’s wearing one of his usual dark suits, tailored to perfection, not a single hair out of place. He looks like he could have just stepped off the cover of some business magazine, but I know better. There’s a predator behind that polished facade.
“Romiro,” he says, his voice cool, controlled. “You’re late.”
