Marked By The Mafia

The steady beeping filled the room. Serena’s hands hovered over the defibrillator, but her mind had drifted for just a moment—thinking about the argument with Nathaniel that morning.

“Doctor Hayes!” the nurse shouted. “Check the pulse!”

Serena’s stomach dropped. She looked at the patient’s chest. Nothing. The line on the monitor wasn’t moving.

Her hands tightened on the paddles. “Charge to two hundred,” she said.

The junior doctor scrambled to follow. “Two hundred, charged!”

“Clear!” Serena pressed the paddles to the patient’s chest. The body jerked violently, but the monitor stayed flat.

“Again!” she barked, slamming the paddles. Nothing.

“Another shock?” the junior doctor asked, his voice shaky.

“Yes! Now!” she snapped.

The nurse handed her the epinephrine. Serena injected it quickly and started compressions herself. Her arms burned. Sweat ran down her face. She counted every compression aloud. “One… two… three… come on, stay with me!”

The monitor beeped once. Then again. The line began to move, faintly at first, then steadier.

“He’s back!” the nurse said.

Serena stepped back, trembling. Her gloves were smeared with blood. She sucked in a deep breath, her chest tight, her heart hammering. She couldn’t believe it. She almost lost a patient. Because she hadn’t been paying attention.

“Good save, doctor,” the junior doctor said, still pale.

She didn’t respond. She pulled off her gloves and threw them away.

The others started cleaning up, talking quietly. Serena turned toward the counter and leaned on it for a moment, trying to steady her breathing. Her hands still wouldn’t stop shaking.

You can’t do that again, she thought. You don’t get to lose focus.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the screen. Nathaniel.

Her chest tightened. Her hands were still shaking from the ICU. For a second, she had to stop herself from dropping the phone. She’d almost lost a patient tonight—her focus had slipped for the briefest moment, and now even the sight of his name made her feel like she could spiral again.

“Hi, love,” she answered, voice soft.

“Still at the hospital?” His tone was gentle, practiced. “I’m swamped at the bank, but I’ll make it up to you tonight.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll bring dinner. You’ll owe me a massage.”

He laughed, distracted. “Deal.”

When the line went dead, she stared at the ring on her finger. A simple diamond, nothing extravagant, but steady. Safe. Nathaniel represented everything she had promised herself as a child: stability, kindness, no surprises. Not like her stepfather—never like him.

She signed off her charts, locked her office, and drove toward Nathaniel’s flat. Her hands still shook slightly, and her mind replayed the moments in the ICU. She tried to push the memories away, to focus on something else, but the adrenaline hadn’t fully faded.

At a corner café, she picked up his favorite dinner—wild-mushroom risotto and two miniature tiramisus. She imagined the evening: candles, wine, a quiet apology for being late. Maybe they would talk about honeymoon destinations. Santorini, perhaps.

She