Chapter 3 - The Broken AlibiThe card burned a hole in the pocket of Bianca’s lab coat all through the following week. She kept it tucked away in her locker, buried beneath sterile gauze and spare pens, trying to convince herself that she was a normal nurse living a normal life.
But St. Catherine’s Hospital had a way of shattering normalcy.
It happened on a rainy Thursday afternoon. Bianca was charting patient notes at the nurses' station when the emergency double doors flew open, slamming against the drywall with a thunderous crash.
"Code red! Trauma team to bay three! We have a multi-car collision on the FDR Drive!" a paramedic shouted, his jacket soaked in dark, glistening blood.
Chaos erupted instantly. Nurses scrambled, doctors rushed toward the trauma bays, and the sterile hallways filled with the frantic wail of incoming gurneys. Bianca dropped her pen and sprinted toward bay three.
A young man was wheeled in, his body battered, skin pale as chalk, and breathing in shallow, ragged gasps. But it wasn't the patient that made Bianca’s blood run cold—it was the two men standing guard at the doors of the trauma bay, wearing identical black suits and earpieces.
Bellamy enforcers.
"Clear the room! Family only, or hospital staff actively treating the patient!" a doctor ordered.
Bianca stepped up to the bedside, checking the heart monitor. The numbers were plunging. "Internal bleeding. His spleen has ruptured. We need to prep him for emergency surgery right now!"
"Hold on, nurse," a deep, cold voice interrupted from the corner of the bay.
Tristan Bellamy stepped out from the shadows near the sink. He wasn't wearing his usual pristine suit; instead, he wore a dark charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, corded muscle and a long, faded scar across his left wrist. His expression was carved from ice.
"Mr. Bellamy," the head trauma surgeon stammered, looking nervous. "You shouldn't be in here. This is a sterile zone—"
"He’s my younger cousin, Leo," Tristan cut him off, his voice dangerously low. "He was run off the road by an unmarked semi truck ten minutes ago. I want to know if he’s going to make it."
Bianca looked at the monitor. The line was jagged, erratic. "If we don't move him to the operating theater in the next three minutes, Mr. Bellamy, he won't make it to the hour."
Tristan looked from the dying man on the bed to Bianca. For a second, the mafia boss and the dedicated nurse locked eyes. There was no room for negotiation. No space for games.
"Do your job, Ms. Carter," Tristan whispered, stepping aside. "Save him. And if he dies, you'll be the first person I hold accountable."
"I save lives, Mr. Bellamy," Bianca snapped, adrenaline flooding her veins as she grabbed the gurney’s rails. "I don't murder them. Help me push this bed to OR 2 right now!"
The surgery was a bloodbath. For two grueling hours, Bianca stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the lead surgeon, suctioning blood, handing clamps, and keeping track of vitals as Leo Bellamy fought for every breath on the table. Outside the observation window, standing motionless like a dark statue in the gallery, Tristan watched every single movement she made.
When the final stitch was tied and the heart monitor stabilized into a steady, rhythmic beep, Bianca wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her gloved hand, her entire body shaking from the adrenaline crash.
She walked out of the operating room doors, pulling off her surgical cap. Tristan was waiting in the hallway.
"He's stable," Bianca said before he could ask. "The spleen was lacerated, but we caught it in time. He's going to live."
Tristan let out a slow, heavy breath—the first sign of vulnerability she had ever seen in him. The rigid line of his shoulders relaxed by a fraction.
"Thank you, Bianca," he said, using her first name for the very first time. The sound of it sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"Don't thank me," she said, her voice shaking slightly as she tried to walk past him. "I did my job."
"You did more than your job," Tristan said, his hand shooting out to gently catch her wrist. His fingers were warm, calloused, and impossibly strong. He didn't pull her close, but he didn't let go either. "That truck didn't lose control on the FDR, Ms. Carter. Someone tried to assassinate my cousin. And the people who ordered the hit... they know he survived."
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Bianca stopped dead, her heart missing a beat. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Because you were in the operating room. Your name is on the charts. In my world, that makes you a witness. And in their world, witnesses don't get to walk away."
