She smirks. “You’re not homeless. You can stay at a luxury hotel on some guy named Cormac’s dime.”
“I can’t do that.” I put the hat back on and pull it down again. “That’s not me.”
“I know. Of course, you can stay with me.” She hugs me. “And I hate to lose you as a partner, but you’re meant to be a doctor.”
I nod, feeling better by the minute. “This job made it clear to me that I want emergency medicine to be my specialty.” Nothing against primary physicians or specialists, but watching Pierce put on a tie every day, looking in the mirror like he thought he was better than everyone, made me sick.
Regan smirks. “Watch, you’ll probably marry another doctor.”
I stiffen. “I don’t want to marry a doctor. Or even date another doctor, ever.”
“Never say never,” she murmurs. “Medicine is your legacy. You might see it differently someday. Meet someone who looks at medicine and helping people the way you do.”
“I never thought about it like that.” Smiling, I add, “You’re right.”
When an alarm sounds, I decide to stay and start my shift early.
For the first time in months, I feel excited about my future.
Thank God I had last night. And that one reckless, beautiful moment.
In a few weeks, I will completely start over.
Chapter 8
Cormac
August
Istand in front of the now-familiar ornate front door with brass hinges and a lion’s head knocker, whose mouth holds a brass ring. Before I even knock, it opens, and a man of about six-seven with a huge head and a square jaw greets me in his low, deep Russian accent. “Dr. O’Rourke.”
“How you doing, Sergei?” I greet the Astoria Bratva enforcer who reports to the underboss.
The underboss, who happens to be my ex, Ana O’Rourke. Formerly Anastasia Koslov, the Russian princess of Pakhan Alexei Koslov.
Hooking up with Ana in Las Vegas over three years ago made sense. We were both from mafia families, so we understood each other. We didn’t need to keep our pasts a secret.
She was running from a marriage arrangement with the pakhan from Boston. We had fun for a couple of months, but we started doing drugs that turned us into people no one would have recognized today.
I should have learned my lesson about vulnerable women who drop into my lap, looking for a way out.
A flash of Scarlett a few weeks ago cuts through my skull. She went from wet and broken on the street, like a discarded Christmas puppy, to naked soft skin under my hands. Her aching moans hours later are sounds I’m still pinching myself about.
I shove the thoughts down deep, where all the things I can never have again live.
Sergei lets me in, and I have free rein in this house. He doesn’t follow me or even announce me.
Darragh and Ana’s sprawling Tudor has mahoganytrim everywhere. The place is very old-world. More gothic Bratva from Ana’s Russian side than Darragh’s scrappy Irish Mob roots. My roots.
We might be mafia, who would ordinarily keep things low-key, but this, this is Astoria. My brothers are in charge here. And they live in peace with the Bratva and a small Cosa Nostra presence.
I head straight for the magazine-worthy kitchen to find my brother Darragh dressed to the nines in a dark blue three-piece suit, white shirt with some kind of sheen, and a gold tie.
On his six, talking a mile a minute, wearing a gray plaid Catholic school uniform and a frown, is his daughter from his first marriage, my adorable niece, Sophie.
“Uncle Cormac!” she says, her face lighting up as she bolts toward me.
Being around her makes me forget I hate myself.