The Doctor And The Don

The Moreno Name

His name, I learned twenty minutes later from the woman who had let me in, was Marco Moreno.

“You should know who you are dealing with,” she said, arms crossed, watching me work.

“I moved here three weeks ago. I know the good coffee shop near my apartment and basically nothing else.”

She did not laugh. I would later learn her name was Cynthia, and that she never laughed at anything, ever, on principle.

I finished the stitches while Marco gave quiet orders in Spanish to a large man standing near the door, occasionally switching to English just to comment on my technique.

“You are pulling too tight.”

“I am a doctor. You are bleeding on very expensive sheets. Let me do my job.”

“I am allowed an opinion about my own body.”

“You are allowed an opinion. I am allowed to ignore it.”

The large man near the door made a sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh and quickly turned it into a cough when Marco glanced at him.

When I finished, I told him the usual things I tell every patient. Rest. Fluids. Watch for fever. No heavy activity. He looked at me like I had just suggested he take up ballet.

“I run a business.”

“Your business will survive two days without you.”

“You do not know anything about my business.”

“I know it apparently involves getting shot, so maybe slowing down would help.” I zipped my bag closed. “That is all the medical advice I have for tonight.”

He studied me for a long moment, the kind of look that made me feel like he already had a file on me somewhere. “You are not scared of me.”

“Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

“I have survived a Chicago emergency room on a Saturday night. I think I will manage.”

For the first time, he actually smiled, and it did something to my chest that I refused to think too hard about.

“I will see you tomorrow, Dr. Hayes.”

“That was not part of the deal.”

“It is now,” he said, and something about his tone told me arguing was pointless.

I left the house with my heart doing something it had no business doing over a man I had just met, in a house full of armed strangers, on my third week in a brand new city.