Dr. Fake It - A Possessive Doctor Romance

“You know about that accident patient that came in about a week ago, older woman, in a coma?”

He shrugged. “I heard there was someone like her.”

“She suffered some serious trauma.” I reached into my jacket and took out a copy of her chart and handed it over. He frowned as he paged through it. “I can’t figure out why she’s still under. We have her intubated and on machines at the moment, and she’s stable as far as I can tell.”

“Interesting,” he murmured. “I see some bleeding on the brain stem. Might’ve been a massive stroke.”

I leaned forward. “Show me.”

He pointed out a very slight shadow and I shook my head. “That could be nothing.”

“Or it could be something. She’s in a coma, after all.”

I grunted and sat back. “All right, so what do you think?”

“If you’re asking me if she’ll wake up, you know my answer.”

“Fifty-fifty at best?”

“Pretty much.” He shrugged and made an apologetic gesture. “What can I say, it’s just how these things go.”

“What about moving her?”

He tilted his head. “Risky proposition. Is Maria kicking her out?”

“No, but she tried.”

“Ah, what’d you do, threaten to walk?”

I laughed. “God, the rumors in his place are crazy.”

He grinned at me. “I know you married the daughter too, in case you were wondering.”

“Yeah, well.” I let out a sigh. “Things don’t always turn out how you think, right?”

“Sure.” He pushed the chart back over to me. “If you want my professional opinion, I’d say you shouldn’t move her. It’s a risk either way.”

“How big of a risk?”

“It all depends on whether or not she’ll breathe on her own once you remove the intubation. If she can breathe, chances are good. If not—” He shook his head and didn’t need to elaborate.

“All right,” I said softly. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, and what I already knew more or less, but it was good to get a second opinion. I stood up and stretched then nodded to him. “Look, I appreciate the advice, and I’d appreciate some discretion.”

“We never spoke.” He smirked at me. “I’ve gotta ask though. Why’d you get married?”

“Being a bachelor’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Suits me okay.”

“For now.” I walked to his office door. “See you later.”

“See you.”

I left and strode down the hall, mind working. If we could remove her breathing tube and she could breathe on her own, then moving her would be a lot easier. If we could move her, we could leave the city, and maybe we’d have a chance.

I sighed and stopped in the alcove near the elevators. A small bench was set into a recess in front of the window, and I sat down and stretched my legs out. Sunlight came in at an angle and it felt warm on my neck as I thought about Erica again, about the way her muscles shook and she groaned. I licked my lips and wondered exactly how many people in the hospital knew about my situation.

Probably everyone. And probably only Fiona knew the whole truth.

Goddamn it. I needed to think smarter if I was going to get out of this. Cosimo didn’t seem interested in negotiating, but I needed him to come to the table if I wanted a chance to buy him off. I didn’t know how to get in touch with a mobster, short of driving around the city yelling out his name until someone came and tried to kill me. Or maybe I could just wait for them to come to me—but they’d probably come armed, and again, try to kill me.

But then I remembered a patient I’d treated a year back. His name was Antoine Benoit, a small-time thief. He came into my ER with a stab wound, a pretty bad one, and I cleaned him up and saved his life—and didn’t rat him out to the cops when they came around asking about him. I figured he still owed me one, and really he was the only person I had any connection to that might be able to put me in touch with Cosimo.

I pulled out my phone and found his number in my contacts. I shook my head, smiling to myself, as I remembered him giving it to me. At the time I only added it to be polite, and forgot it was in there entirely afterward, but he insisted that I call if I ever needed the favor repaid.

So I called and let it ring. I didn’t expect anything—until he picked up.

“Who the hell is this?” he barked.

“Is this Antoine?” I asked.

“You’ve got one second to tell me who the fuck you are before—”

“Antoine, this is Dr. Majors. Do you remember me?”

A short pause. “You’re the good doc that stitched me up and didn’t rat me out.”

“That’s right. You gave me your number in case I ever needed a favor.”