Rescued by the Mafia

Olive Branch

Melody

The coffee cup still warmed my hands as I walked back through the hospital doors, the fleeting quiet of the café replaced instantly by the familiar chaos of the ER. The fluorescent lights were harsh, but I barely noticed them. My mind replayed the small moments with Mark—the way he had paused me in the hallway, the careful way he had listened, the soft intensity in his eyes that didn’t demand anything, yet somehow left me uncomfortably aware of myself.

I shook myself mentally, letting the feelings go for now. Duty called. My patient was waiting.

She had come in hours earlier, brought by a friend after an incident that was all too familiar to me. The bruises on her arms were faint but deliberate, a story written in pain, and the tension in her jaw screamed defiance and fear all at once. Lab results had come back while I was gone—her pregnancy test was positive. My stomach tightened. I had walked this path myself, and the knowledge of what could happen if she remained in danger weighed heavily.

I pulled on my gloves and took a deep breath before stepping into the room. “Hi,” I said softly, keeping my tone neutral but steady. “How are you feeling?”

She looked at me, wary, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m fine,” she said sharply. “I can handle things. I don’t need anyone telling me what to do.”

I nodded, not pushing, because I had learned that trust needed patience. “I understand,” I said. “I’m not here to judge. I just want to make sure you have the information you need to stay safe—for you and for your baby.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not unsafe. You don’t know me.”

A quiet ache passed through me at her words, and I realized she didn’t. She didn’t know the truth about fear, or how it could hide behind smiles and denials. I pulled a chair close and sat, keeping my voice calm, deliberate.

“I do know,” I said quietly, almost to myself. “I’ve been there. I stayed when I shouldn’t have. I told myself it wasn’t that bad, that things would get better if I just tried harder. And I was wrong. I stayed. I was hurt. I lost… everything I wanted. My baby, my sense of safety, my trust in the world.”

Her eyes widened slightly, but she still didn’t speak.

“I’m telling you this not to scare you,” I continued, forcing the words past the lump in my throat, “but because you need to understand something I didn’t at the time. Abusers don’t care about your future, your dreams, or even your child. They care about control. And denial—telling yourself it isn’t happening—doesn’t make you safe. It only makes it easier for them to take everything.”

I watched her, the defenses in her posture starting to waver, and I pressed gently. “You’re pregnant,” I said softly. “That’s something precious, something you need to protect. You deserve to have a choice about your life and your child’s life, and you need support to make that choice safely.”

Her voice shook the first time she spoke since I entered. “But… what if I can’t?”

“You can,” I said firmly, leaning forward slightly. “It won’t be easy, but you can. You deserve safety. You deserve help. You deserve a chance to be the person your child will look up to—not just surviving, but living fully. I know that sounds impossible when you’re scared, but it’s true. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

I handed her a small packet of resources, numbers for safe shelters, counseling, and legal aid. “These are for you,” I said. “Use them when you’re ready. Not because I’m forcing you, but because you deserve the choice to protect yourself and your baby.”

Her hands trembled as she took the packet, and I saw something in her eyes—a flicker of recognition, the first spark of hope. I didn’t force her to say more, didn’t push further. Sometimes, planting the seed was all I could do.

As I stood and prepared to leave, I reminded her softly, “You’re stronger than you think. And you don’t have to face this alone.”

Walking back to the nurses’ station, I felt the familiar weight of my own story pressing against me—the grief I carried, the mistakes I couldn’t undo. But I also felt a small surge of purpose. For the first time in a long while, I realized that sharing my truth—painful as it was—could save someone else from making the same choices I had.

And as I glanced at the hallway, my thoughts briefly returned to Mark, to the way he had listened without judgment. Even in my fractured life, maybe… maybe there was a chance to see beauty, even if it was only in moments like this.

The rest of my shift passed with the usual rhythm of the ER, each patient bringing a new challenge, a new story. Somehow, today felt lighter—maybe because I had reminded someone else that survival was possible, maybe because for a few moments I had allowed myself to believe that even small acts of care could matter.

By the time the evening rolled around, it was time to discharge Lisa, the young woman I had spent hours trying to guide through fear and uncertainty. She looked more composed than when she had arrived, though the tension in her shoulders hadn’t fully melted.

“Dr. Harper,” she said hesitantly, clutching the packet I had given her earlier. “I… I know this is weird, but could I have your number? Just in case I need someone to talk to… someone who understands.”

I froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard. Hesitation is second nature to me these days—trust is something I dole out sparingly. But then I saw myself reflected in her fear, in her hope, in the desire to reach for an anchor when the world feels like it’s slipping. I smiled gently.

“Alright,” I said, scribbling my number on a slip of paper. “Just… take care of yourself, okay? And remember—you’re stronger than you know.”

Her face softened, gratitude mingling with relief. She tucked the paper into her pocket, and I watched her leave, the act feeling like both a closure and a small thread of connection that tied us together, however briefly.

By the time I hung up my stethoscope and signed out my chart, the hospital had quieted to its nighttime hum. The fluorescent lights seemed softer now, shadows stretching across the hallways. I walked through the empty ER, my coat on, ready to leave, but my mind still buzzing with everything the day had held.

Outside, the crisp Seattle evening wrapped around me. I walked to my car, the city lights reflecting off wet pavement, and pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before I typed a simple message to Mark:

8:30 pm. Pagliacci Pizza.

It was precise, unassuming—a time and a place. I paused, noting it was only 7 pm. Plenty of time to go home, shower, and change. A small detail, mundane yet deliberate, a way to prepare myself to step out of my day and into something unfamiliar, something that might challenge the walls I had built so carefully around myself.

I hit send and slid my phone back into my pocket, exhaling slowly. The anticipation wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was something else—something lighter, fragile, but unbroken. Tonight, perhaps, would be another small step toward learning to let someone in.

And for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself the thought that maybe it could be Mark.