Page 3 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

Italian, but not tourist-Italian.

Kitchen Italian.

Church-basement Italian.

The kind I grew up hearing through floorboards when my uncle’s friends stayed late after closing.

“Great,” I say, and Rizzo hands me lidocaine like we didn’t both hear the way he said one syllable. “This will sting.”

He does not flinch when the needle goes in.

He keeps his eyes on mine as if he is braced for me to ask another question.

I don't.

It's not that I'm afraid.

It's that sometimes, the safest thing you can do for a man is to keep him a stranger.

The doors swing a second time.

Two uniformed cops sidle into the doorway like they already belong in the chart.

They hold notepads.

They wear faces that say patient confidentiality is a quaint suggestion.

Their belts shine under fluorescent light.

“Evening,” the taller one says, casual, like we’re swapping recipes. “We got a call about a shooting three blocks over. Matches this gentleman’s general look. We’ll just need a name and a quick statement.”

“Evening,” I say, and I don't look up from the wound. “We’ll need to stabilize him before anyone does any talking.”

“Of course.” Pen taps paper. The pen looks impatient. “Name, though.”

“I’ll get you whatever the registrar can legally give you,” I say.

I reach for a new pack of sterile gauze. “Right now, I need the space at the foot of the bed.”

The shorter one considers trying his luck with the other side of the room, then thinks better of it when the attending steps in behind me like a mountain in clean scrubs.

Dr. Kwan has a way of standing that makes men with guns take three polite steps back without realizing it.

He asks for a quick brief, listens with eyes on the wound, and gives three orders that make everything faster.

Labs.

Portable ultrasound.

Keep the transfusion going.

“Mechanism?” he asks me.

“Looks like a through and through graze with bad closure. Left lateral abdomen. No signs of peritoneal violation on first glance,” I say, precise because precision is our currency. “No exit wound we can see. We’ll know more with imaging.”

The patient watches both of us.

Sweat beads along his hairline.