My Mafia Valentine

Chapter 1

Lori

The wind whips between the buildings, finding every gap in my coat. My boots crunch through patches of gray snow, dodging frozen puddles that gleam like mirrors in the weak morning light. Three more blocks to Stone Hospital. Three more blocks until another twelve-hour shift of watching people struggle, suffer, sometimes slip away. Too damn often.

A delivery guy on his bike weaves past, the smell of bacon trailing behind him. My stomach growls, reminding me I forgot breakfast again.

"Morning, Miss Lori!" Mr. Singe calls from his newsstand. His breath forms little clouds in the frigid air.

"Hey, Mr. Singe. Staying warm?"

"Trying. You want your usual?"

"Not today." The thought of reading about more tragedy, more violence, more pain – it's too much this morning. "Maybe tomorrow."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Take care of yourself, okay? World needs good nurses like you. Bless you, Ma'am."

The world needs more than nurses, I think, stepping around another pile of blackened snow. It needs hope. Light. Something to pierce through this endless gray. My phone buzzes – most likely another text from the hospital asking if I can stay late tonight. Again.

My fingers are too numb to reply, but they know I will. I always do. Because behind every chart, every beeping monitor, there's a person fighting their own battle against the darkness. And sometimes, just sometimes, a gentle word or touch is all it takes to help them find their way back to the light.

A gust of wind sends a newspaper tumbling past my feet. The headline catches my eye: "City's Healthcare Crisis Deepens." I pull my coat tighter, quickening my pace as Stone Hospital's imposing silhouette looms ahead, its windows reflecting the colorless winter sky.

The automatic doors slide open, but I pause at the threshold. My reflection in the glass shows dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer can hide. Three days since Nyla's arrest, and sleep feels like a distant memory.

"Can't believe it was Nyla," a passing orderly whispers to his colleague just inside the door. "She seemed so normal."

My fingers curl into fists. Normal. Like they know anything about her, about what really happened.

The locker room is mercifully empty when I slip inside. Coffee splashes over the rim of my cup as my hands shake.

My phone buzzes. Another message from Zara: "Any news?"

"Nothing yet," I text back. "Visiting hours at 2. Coming?"

Three dots appear, then disappear. Finally: "Can't. Work."

My coffee burns my tongue, but I barely notice. Some best friends we are – one in jail, one too scared to visit, and me... what am I doing? Standing here, watching it all fall apart.

"Hey, Lori." Dr. Jackson appears in the doorway. "You okay? You've been staring at that coffee for five minutes."

"Just tired." The lie tastes bitter. "Long week."

"I heard about your friend. If you need time off—"

"I need to work." My voice sounds like a gruff bark. "Sorry, I just... I need to be doing something."

He nods, his expression soft. "The police report came out this morning. They're saying—"

"Don't." The cup crumples in my grip. "Please. I can't hear any more theories or speculation. Not today."

The silence is oppressive, filled with unspoken questions. Because how do you make sense of this? Your best friend accused of murder and a family destroyed. There's no protocol for this kind of heartbreak.

I stand, throwing my coffee cup in the trash. "Rounds won't wait. We'll talk later, Dr. Jackson."

I head to room 204. Mrs. Barber needs her morning meds. My footsteps echo in the quiet hallway as I check her chart one more time.

"How are we feeling today?" I adjust her IV drip, trying to inject warmth into my voice.

"Better than you, by the looks of it." Mrs. Barber's weathered face creases with concern. "You're not sleeping. I can tell."

"I'm fine." The lie comes automatically now. Like muscle memory.

"My daughter used to say that too. Right before her breakdown." She pats the bed beside her. "Sit. Talk."

"I have rounds to—"

"Five minutes won't hurt." She fixes me with that grandmotherly stare that brooks no argument.

I perch on the edge of her bed, my clipboard clutched like a shield. "It's just... a friend is in trouble. And I can't help her."

"Ah. The one from the news?"

My throat constricts. "They don't know her like I do. The things they're saying..."

"People always talk. Doesn't make it true." Mrs. Barber's plump fingers find mine, surprisingly strong. "But hiding your pain won't help either of you."

The monitor beeps steadily in the background. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings. Life goes on, even when it feels like your world has stopped turning.

"She must be so scared," I whisper. "Alone in that cell. And I'm here, doing nothing."

"You're keeping her light burning." Mrs. Barber squeezes my hand. "Sometimes that's all we can do."

My pager buzzes – Room 318 needs attention. Back to reality.

"Thank you," I say, standing. "For listening."

"Thank you for caring." She settles back against her pillows. "The world needs more hearts like yours."

I step into the hallway, blinking back tears. The fluorescent lights feel harsher now, casting shadows that weren't there before. Or maybe I just wasn't seeing them. I head down the hallway for a much-needed break, and it’s only 10:30.

My phone vibrates against the break room table, Alexander's name lighting up the screen. My heart skips as I answer.

"Hey stranger," I say, sinking into the worn leather couch.

"There's my favorite nurse. How's the shift going?"

His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket, and some of the tension eases from my shoulders. "Remember that time you got shot and I had to patch you up?"

"How could I forget? Best gunshot wound of my life."

"Well, today's making that look like a vacation." I rub my temples. "Lost two patients this morning. Then had to tell a six-year-old his mom isn't coming home."

"I'm sorry, Solnishko." The Russian endearment makes me smile despite everything. "Want me to come by? I make an excellent distraction."

"You're supposed to be resting. That bullet wound—"

"—is healing fine, thanks to my personal Florence Nightingale."

"Alexander."

"I know, I know. Doctor's orders." He pauses. "Tell me about the six-year-old."

I squeeze my eyes shut, seeing Tommy's face again. "He just... sat there. So quiet. Like he couldn't process it. Then he asked if his mom was with the angels, and I—" My voice cracks.

"You were there for him. That matters."

"Does it? Some days I wonder if anything we do here makes a difference."

"Hey." His tone grows serious. "You made a difference to me. Changed my whole life, remember?"

"Nearly got you killed in the process."

"Best decision I ever made. Ivan's bullet was worth getting out of that life. Worth being with you."

Warmth blooms on my cheeks. "Smooth talker."

"Only for you, Solnishko. Only for you."

"Hold that thought," Alexander says. "Check your locker."

"My locker? Alex, what did you—"

"Just trust me, Solnishko."

I move across the room to the bank of staff lockers, phone pressed to my ear. "If this is another one of your surprises..."

"You love my surprises."

Inside my locker, a cream-colored envelope sits atop my spare scrubs. My hands are shaking as I open it.

"How did you? First-class tickets to Paris?" My voice rises an octave. "Alex, I can't—"

"Yes, you can. Two weeks, just us. The Ritz, private tours, dinner at Le Jules Verne."

"The hospital—"

"Already cleared your vacation time with Dr. Jackson. He says you need it."

"You went behind my back?"

"I went above and beyond. There's a difference." His smile carries through his voice. "You deserve this, Lori. After everything with Nyla, Tommy... You need a break."

I sink onto the bench, staring at the tickets. Paris. The city of lights. Of love. Of new beginnings.

"Valentine's Day in Paris," I whisper. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly charming?"

"Impossibly extra. Normal people give flowers."

"Since when have I ever been normal?" He pauses. "Say yes. Let me sweep you off your feet, just for two weeks."

The ticket paper feels smooth under my fingertips. Real. Like tangible hope.

"Yes," I breathe. "God help me, yes."

"That's my girl. Now about that packing list—"

"Alex! I'm at work."

"Right, right. Saving lives. Being amazing. Go on then, we'll plan later."

I tuck the envelope carefully into my bag, a smile tugging at my lips. "Thank you," I say softly.

"For what?"

"For making me remember there's still magic in the world."

"Always, Solnishko. Always."