The Veil Of Vows

The Sanctuary

Almost a century had passed since the monastery's demise.

Or so said every guide in Porto Azzurro.

Ivy choked the old stone walls as though nature itself had chosen to bury history, its weathered bell tower inclined towards the water, and its stained-glass windows had given way to the wind and salt.

It was exactly for that reason that I picked it.

Nobody paid attention to the ruins.

After dusk, I turned off the engine and parked my automobile beneath a stand of cypress trees. I sat silently for a time, listening to the surf hit the cliffs underneath.

The peace had a sound.

It lasted only a short time.

With my worn leather satchel slung over my shoulder, I walked out and ascended the broken stone stairs that led to the abandoned chapel. The broken roof allowed moonlight to enter, lighting shattered pews and a dusty altar.

It was a forgotten relic to everyone else.

It was the safest location remaining in Italy, in my opinion.

I knelt at the altar and pushed my hand on a loose rock that was underneath it.

The chapel was filled with the sound of a faint click.

The floor moved.

As a small staircase appeared out of the darkness, cold air rose.

I heard voices floating towards me.

Footsteps.

The soft clang of surgical equipment.

Life.

"The Doctor of Ghosts is here."

I was greeted before I even reached the last step.

I grinned despite myself.

"I've warned you not to address me in that manner."

As she gave me a clean white jacket, Teresa, an elderly nurse, shrugged.

I've also warned you to get more rest. We both disregard sound counsel."

The subterranean tunnels extended further than most people thought. They were carved centuries ago by monks below the monastery to serve as havens during conflict. Abandoned chambers had been converted into operating rooms, recovery wards, pharmacies, storage rooms, and temporary laboratories throughout the years.

Nothing was the same.

Nothing gave the impression of being pricey.

Despite everything, it worked out.

People who had nowhere else to go deserved a place to live.

When I saw a young boy with a fractured arm smile, he did so.

"Rossi, doctor!"

"How bad is the pain?"

"Lower than yesterday."

"Then we're moving ahead."

While one of our volunteers checked the baby's temperature, a young mother close by cradled her sleeping daughter. A fresh bandage for his diabetic foot was patiently awaited by an old fisherman. A migrant worker practiced walking once more across the chamber after having reconstructive surgery.

Other narratives.

Different lives.

The same kind of aspiration.

Don't ask any questions.

Prioritize saving the patient.

It was the only regulation.

I went from bed to bed, taking my time.

Occasionally, surgery was necessary for treatment.

Listening was sometimes necessary.

It often involved reminding anxious individuals that they still counted.

"You didn't have supper once more."

I didn't need to turn around to recognize the voice.

Sophia.

My younger sister held a crate of medical supplies in one arm and two paper bags in the other.

"Before Teresa arranges another intervention, I brought food."

Teresa gave a serious nod.

"I've been contemplating limitations."

Sophia chuckled, and the sound heated the tunnels far more than the overhead lights ever could.

She gave me a tight hug.

"You seem really weary."

"I appear employed."

"When you're weary, you always reply with jokes."

"And you always notice."

I was handed a warm sandwich by her.

"You're going to eat this."

"Is that a request?"

"No."

"My younger sister is getting scarier."

"The greatest instructors taught me everything."

We grinned quietly at one another.

Simply because she was there, the burden I carried daily was alleviated for a few treasured moments.

As naturally as sunlight through stained glass, Sophia moved through The Sanctuary.

She addressed patients by their names.

Sat alongside scared children.

Assisted an elderly volunteer with drug organization.

She had as much right to be here as I did.

I frequently questioned whether I had taken too much of her youth by forcing her into my private life when I looked at her.

I was staring when she caught me.

"What?"

"None."

"Liar."

I let out a sigh.

"You ought to be out making awful judgments with your age group."

"And miss spending my evening underground with my favorite surgeon?"

"Just my surgeon."

"Right on the money."

She struck my shoulder.

Elena, you also merit a life.

The terms landed softly.

A little too softly.

"I have one."

"You have work."

She spoke in a lower tone.

"It's not the same."

I was busy reviewing the patient records.

It was simpler than responding.

Rafael was not mentioned by her.

She never did.

She was aware of wounds. which no lancet might close.

Until a loud knock reverberated down the entryway, the clinic's calm pace persisted.

One moment.

Two times.

After that, a third time.

It is crucial.

Desperate.

All conversation halted.

I was the target of Teresa's gaze.

"So late?"

I was already in motion.

"No one knocks like that unless someone is dying."

Tossing back the iron bolts, a volunteer dashed toward the hidden door.

The door burst in.

A hooded figure entered, carrying a man who was covered in blood and unconscious.

"Physician..." The volunteer took a deep breath. "Please... he won't make it another ten minutes."

The volunteer's shoulder was no longer supporting the stranger's arm.

He rolled up his sleeve.

His skin was covered with black ink.

A crowned lion was encircled by a snake.

Silence descended upon the space.

I was familiar with those tattoos.

Every volunteer did so.

The mafia owned them.

Someone had just brought one of its own to the one place in Italy where compassion preceded judgment.

There was no one moving.

The only noises were the stranger's ragged respiration and the steady dripping of blood onto the stone floor.

Teresa spoke first to break the quiet.

"Elena..."

I was already there.

"Put him on Trauma Table Two."

One of the younger volunteers hesitated.

"Physician, those tattoos..."

"I observed them."

"He belongs to the mafia."

"He's bleeding."

"They may have followed him to this location."

"Perhaps," I said, putting a hand under his neck to feel his pulse. "After we keep him alive, we'll deal with that."

The volunteer seemed skeptical.

"If he's a member of their group—"

I caught his eye.

"Our rule does not apply to what happens beyond these walls."

Every person in the room heard the warning in my voice, despite the fact that it remained quiet.

"Everyone is simply a patient here."

Again, nobody disputed.

Hesitation was swiftly replaced by planned mayhem.

The stranger's tattered shirt was cut with scissors.

Sophia hooked up a blood pressure cuff.

IV lines were created by Teresa.

I inspected the injuries.

"Three entrance wounds."

I quickly pointed.

"One through the shoulder."

"One stomach."

"His ribs were hit by the third."

I carefully squeezed around his belly.

He let out a grunt.

"Bleeding inside."

Sophia gazed up.

"Can we save him?"

Without looking away, I responded.

"We will attempt."

The operating room fell into the well-known rhythm that always calmed dread.

Hummed machines.

Metal utensils clanged against stainless steel trays.

The metallic odor of blood was overpowered by the antiseptic odor.

I put on new gloves.

"Anesthesia."

Administered.

"Suction."

Ready.

"Scalpel."

I was consoled by the weapon's familiar feel in my hand.

Beyond this chamber, individuals assessed names.

Bodies spoke in a more basic language within.

Loss of blood.

A broken bone.

Tissue that has fallen down.

Agony.

Nothing else was significant.

Muscle was ripped through by the first bullet, but no bones were struck.

Less forgiving was the second.

It shattered a piece of the scapula before resting dangerously close to a major artery.

The third one...

I scowled.

"He is fortunate."

Sophia turned and looked.

"Normally, you wouldn't say that."

"It missed his heart by less than two centimeters."

A moment of quiet descended.

Sometimes skill was all that mattered for survival.

Sometimes...

It was the result of incredibly improbable luck.

Time passed by without being seen.

Under the surgical cap, my brow was moist with perspiration.

Teresa cautioned, "Pressure's falling."

"I'm aware."

Another boat.

Another stitch is there.

Another transfusion.

The monitor lowered.

Reclaimed.

Dipped one more.

Restored.

Finally...

The consistent beat resumed.

Boop.

Beep.

Beep.

Sophia let out a breath she'd been holding for what seemed like an eternity.

"You did it once more."

My gloves were taken off.

"Nope."

The unconscious man was staring at me.

"He did,"

"He made the decision to not pass away."

Something caught my attention as he wiped dried blood off his left wrist.

Right here.

Just under layers of charred skin.

A symbol.

Nearly destroyed.

It had been attempted to remove it using heat.

Not a tattoo.

A trademark.

I gently wiped the wound.

Only a portion of the photograph could be seen.

An item of silver utilized in the game of chess.

Graceful.

Intention.

Different from any mafia symbol I had ever seen.

Sophia moved in closer.

"Have you ever seen anything similar?"

My head was slowly shaken.

"Absolutely not."

"It seems deliberate."

"That is it."

I silently captured a picture of the mark with my phone before covering it once more.

I felt uneasy about something.

Tattoos were concealed by people.

Identifying marks were removed by people.

But branding...

Branding was synonymous with ownership.

Just before daybreak, the patient was taken to recovery.

For weary cups of coffee, most of the volunteers moved to the dining room.

I was washing blood off of my hands when Sophia discovered me.

"You're always willing to take a chance."

Through the mirror, I gave her a glance.

"What?"

"When individuals pass through those doors."

Her arms were folded.

"You don't inquire about their identities."

"No."

"You don't inquire about their accomplishments."

"No."

She spent a few minutes observing me.

"Despite everything."

The running water occupied the silence.

In the end, she posed the question I was aware had been waiting.

"For what reason?"

I turned off the tap.

From my fingertips, water dripped into the sink.

"If I start judging who deserves to live..."

I could hardly speak above a whisper.

"I'm not any different than the people I fled from then."

Her eyes softened.

My hand was squeezed after she stepped forward.

"You continue to take them with you."

"Everyone I was unable to save is on me."

She didn't inquire about Rafael's participation.

She was already aware of the solution.

The quiet was interrupted by an alarm.

A single strong tone.

And then another one.

Room number three in the recovery room.

Before we started running, Sophia and I exchanged glances.

Against the restraints, the patient arched violently.

He shuddered all over.

The heart monitor yelled.

"Keep an eye on him!"

Teresa seized one of the arms.

His shoulders were restrained by another volunteer.

He abruptly opened his eyes.

Feral.

Scared.

Unconfused.

Afraid.

He glanced around the room as though expecting someone to materialize from the darkness.

I then received it.

With unexpected force, he leaped forward and grabbed my wrist.

His fingers were shaking.

He moved his lips.

I got closer.

"What?"

He was gasping for air.

"They..."

His voice broke.

"They are..."

Another forceful cough.

His lips were covered in blood.

I leaned nearer until I could barely hear him.

He looked on in sheer terror as his eyes widened.

He forgot one term.

"Esposito..."

He let go of the situation.

A continuous, high-pitched alarm burst forth from the monitor.

Every impulse I had stifled for the past three years came back to life.

I had not said that name.

I had not looked for it.

I hadn't let myself recall it.

Still, how is it possible...

I knew that I was hiding in the safest spot possible.