Hel & Veritas

The Mistake

After a quick trip to the restroom, where she nervously popped a cherry-flavored candy – the red, sweet burst a small comfort – Fiorenza made her way towards C wing, heading for the Operating Theater on the 9th floor. The moment the elevator doors slid open, she was met with a scene of silent, controlled chaos. Nurses moved with brisk efficiency, their focused energy palpable as they made final preparations before the surgery. Everyone understood the unspoken rule: Xenia Mikhailov tolerated no lethargy, no mistakes. A single, minor oversight, he believed, could jeopardize a patient’s life, and the Volga Group’s unwavering motto was to prioritize every patient until their very last breath. Fiorenza stepped into the small anteroom adjacent to the OT, meticulously sanitizing her hands before donning her mask, hair cap, and gloves. Once properly garbed, she emerged and entered the theater, where a nurse was already diligently monitoring the patient’s vital signs. Fiorenza quietly took the notepad offered by the nurse, her eyes quickly scanning the patient’s details. David, the patient, was scheduled for a fusion of three vertebrae, a complex procedure that would undoubtedly require at least four hours of intense concentration. After reviewing his vitals and confirming that all the pre-operative preparations were complete, she stepped discreetly to the side, positioning herself beside the nurse, her gaze fixed on the entrance, a mixture of anticipation and nerves swirling within her as she waited for the arrival of the medical titan. Precisely three minutes later, the OT door swung inward, and the man in question entered, a figure of imposing presence in his black scrubs, the initials "X.M." embroidered in elegant gold thread near his heart.

Fiorenza’s breath hitched. She had watched countless interviews, replayed his rare public appearances until the recordings were practically etched into her memory, yet nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared her for the tangible reality of his presence. The man was not just a gifted surgeon; he possessed a physique that seemed carved from granite, a build more akin to a Viking warrior than a man who spent his days in sterile operating rooms. Despite not being petite herself – though she hadn’t inherited her mother’s statuesque height, standing at a perfectly respectable five-foot-five – standing before him, she felt Lilliputian. His face is carved out of the most flawless stone in the world. Thick eyebrows, jaws that could cut stone, perfectly symmetrical pink lips, proud straight nose with a hint of a crook that added on to his physical beauty. He could likely lift her with one of his large, veiny hands without so much as a flicker of effort. A strange, almost inappropriate thought flitted through her mind: What would it feel like to be held by those hands? Fiorenza’s eyes widened, and she mentally chastised herself for such unholy thoughts at such a critical moment. She watched, mesmerized, as he picked up the notepad, his brow furrowed in concentration as he reviewed the patient’s details for a brief minute before smoothly donning his own mask and gloves, his movements precise and economical.

The surgery commenced. Fiorenza watched, utterly captivated, by the calm, almost serene confidence with which he navigated the initial incision, the scalpel slicing through layers of skin as if it were nothing more substantial than a sheet of paper. Instruments were exchanged with silent efficiency, one after the other, and as she became completely absorbed in the intricate dance of the procedure, her respect for Mr. Mikhailov deepened with each passing second. Hours melted away, marked only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the occasional, low, almost growly utterance from Xenia himself, the mere sound of his voice sending a peculiar flutter through her stomach as he requested a specific instrument.

“Hohmann Retractor,” he demanded, his gaze laser-focused on the patient, his eyes scanning the surgical field with the intensity of a hawk. The nurse swiftly passed him the requested retractor, but in that split second, Fiorenza’s sharp eyes registered that it was the incorrect size. And before her brain could fully engage the filter she knew she desperately needed, the words tumbled out, the very mistake she had been determined to avoid. “That’s the wrong one!” she blurted out, the hurried words shattering the intense silence of the operating theater. The already hushed environment seemed to grow even colder, a palpable chill settling in the air. The nurse froze, her breath catching in her throat, the color draining from her face as she instantly recognized her error. Xenia’s head, which had been bent intently over the surgical site, lifted for the first time, his gaze locking directly onto Fiorenza’s wide, suddenly terrified eyes. As if her initial outburst wasn’t catastrophic enough, her eyes widened further, and in a moment of pure, unadulterated Italian frustration, the curse escaped her lips. “Fanculo!” she hissed under her breath, immediately clamping her hands over her mouth, her cheeks flushing crimson beneath her mask.

Oh, she had royally screwed up. Her fledgling medical career had likely just imploded on its very first day. But the image of a potential error, however small, had overridden her self-preservation instincts. “Explain,” he growled, his voice dangerously low and laced with an arctic chill, as if waiting for her justification before delivering the final, career-ending blow. Fiorenza swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, but she tilted her chin up, meeting his intense gaze with a flicker of defiance born of conviction. “The retractor in your hand is 22mm wide and 240mm long, which is suitable for deep, broader retraction. However, given the narrow space within the pedicles at this level, an 8mm wide, 160mm long retractor will provide the necessary precision for operating and cutting through it accurately. Using a wider retractor in this confined space could maximize surgical trauma and potentially create serious, unnecessary wounds.” She finished, her voice surprisingly steady despite the internal turmoil, the detailed anatomy of the spinal cord she had painstakingly memorized during her studies flooding back to her. Xenia’s gaze remained fixed on her, an unnerving intensity that made her stomach churn with a potent mix of fear and something akin to… respect? Then, with a swift, almost imperceptible movement, he turned his head towards the now visibly trembling nurse, whose eyes were glistening with unshed tears, the weight of her mistake crushing her. “Pack your belongings and submit your ID before you leave,” he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Volga has no place for careless people like you.” He then shifted his attention back to Fiorenza, his silver eyes piercing. “Hand me the correct retractor.” And with that, he once again focused his unwavering attention on the delicate work at hand. The dismissed nurse quietly slipped out of the operating theater, leaving Fiorenza alone with the formidable Dr. Mikhailov and the unconscious patient. Stepping forward, her gaze now fixed on the exposed pedicle, Fiorenza swiftly selected an 8mm wide, 160mm long Hohmann retractor and wordlessly handed it to him. The surgery progressed smoothly, ultimately taking a total of five hours, the intricate fusion successfully completed. Nurses returned, their movements now hushed and efficient, and wheeled the patient out of the OT to the intensive care unit for post-operative monitoring. Fiorenza was about to quietly slip out when she heard his low growl again, the sound sending a fresh wave of apprehension through her. “Meet me in my office in thirty minutes.” It wasn't a request; it was a direct command, delivered with the same detached authority as his surgical instructions, as if he hadn’t just summoned a terrified lamb to the big bad wolf’s lair.

Fiorenza made another hasty trip to the restroom, her nerves doing a number on her bladder, then quickly removed her mask and hair cap. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she quickly ate her lunch and popped a cherry candy into her mouth to calm her nerves. After a couple of hurried inquiries, she finally located his personal office in A wing on the 12th floor. A wing, she knew, primarily handled emergency care, a hub of constant activity with doctors and nurses on duty around the clock. B wing catered to patients with terminal illnesses, while C wing was dedicated solely to major surgical procedures.

Reaching the 12th floor, she noted a distinct change in atmosphere. Unlike the bustling lower floors, the corridor here was spacious and surprisingly tranquil, filled with lush green plants and a sleek reception desk where a young man with intricate cornrows was absorbed in typing on a high-end Mac. She approached the desk and cleared her throat softly. He looked up, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. “Hi, I am Dr. Fiorenza Angelo, and Dr. Mikhailov instructed me to meet him in his office,” she answered his unspoken query, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly before he quickly regained his professional composure, offering a curt nod as he picked up his phone and dialed a number. “Hello, Sir,” he greeted the person on the other end, a respectful tone in his voice that left little doubt it was Mr. Mikhailov. “Sir, Dr. Angelo is here. She said Dr. Mikhailov asked her to meet him.” He paused, listening intently for a few seconds before speaking again. “Sure, Sir, will do.” He hung up the call and looked directly at her. “Dr. Angelo, you may go inside. Mr. Kowalski will escort you to Dr. Mikhailov’s office.” He then turned back to his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. She thanked him, her heart pounding, and walked to her left, towards a large, imposing black door.

Opening it revealed a man in his late twenties, impeccably dressed, waiting for her while reviewing something on a tablet, black-framed glasses perched on his nose. He looked up as she entered, offering a polite, professional smile. “Hello, Dr. Angelo, I am Shawn Kowalski, Dr. Mikhailov’s assistant.” He extended a hand, his grip firm and brief. She returned his smile, though a veritable tsunami of nervous energy was churning within her. “Dr. Mikhailov will join you in a couple of minutes. In the meantime, please wait for him inside his personal office.” He gestured towards a magnificent gold door with a sleek black titanium plate, Dr. Mikhailov’s name engraved in elegant platinum lettering. She nodded, thanking Mr. Kowalski, and with a final, fortifying breath, opened the door and stepped inside the inner sanctum.

Her eyes widened in genuine awe. She had never imagined a doctor’s office could be so… magnificent. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panoramic view, the city sprawling beneath the vast expanse of glass behind a massive, impeccably organized desk. The interior was a study in sophisticated power, a striking combination of black and gold. To her left, she noticed a discreet personal elevator, along with a sleek black door that likely led to a private washroom. To her right, a towering bookshelf stretched towards the ceiling, filled with an impressive collection of volumes, including works by prominent medical researchers from around the globe. Her gaze snagged on two particular books, their spines bearing script neither in English nor Russian. Then, recognition dawned – they were ancient Sanskrit medical scriptures: the Charak Samhita and the Sushruta Samhita. She had painstakingly dedicated herself to learning Sanskrit in her spare time, driven by a desire to delve into these foundational texts in their original form. Beside the bookshelf stood three elegant glass cabinets, filled with an array of prestigious awards and mementos the Volga Group had received over its relatively short twelve-year history. The entire room felt as spacious as her New York condo. At the center, a large, glossy black marble table gleamed under the soft lighting, holding meticulously arranged papers, files, pens, and other documents, along with a state-of-the-art computer and a tablet placed precisely on the right side. A plush couch and a pair of armchairs, upholstered in a deep teal velvet, offered a seating area. She chose one of the chairs facing the imposing desk, her heart pounding in her chest, the weight of the impending conversation pressing down on her. This moment, she knew, was a critical juncture. It would either solidify the beginning of her career or bring it to a premature, ignominious end.

And one thing was certain:

She wouldn’t let it end without a fight.

Her papa and mama had raised no quitter.