The Power of Salvation

  The Power of Salvation

  Caterina Passarelli

  Copyright © 2016 Caterina Passarelli

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, incidents and characters are figments of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  The author recognizes the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work. All trademark names are honored by capitalization and no infringement is intended.

  ISBN: 0692773924

  ISBN 13: 9780692773925

  Covered designed by Najla Qambers Designs

  Edited by Duncan Koerber

  For more, visit www.CaterinaPassarelliBooks.com

  RECOMMENDED FOR READERS 18 AND OLDER DUE TO STRONG LANGUAGE, SEXUAL SITUATIONS AND VIOLENCE.

  If you or someone you know is in need of help, please contact The National Domestic Violence Abuse Hotline:

  (800) 799-7233

  www.thehotline.org

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  With Love

  Prologue

  Luke

  10 Years Old

  I’m hiding under the bed tucked in between my older sister and younger brother, praying he doesn’t come for us. The man of the house. Our dad. He’s in one of his moods tonight. We could easily end up getting our heads smashed together if we even look at him the wrong way.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. My first trip to the hospital was when I was five years old, getting ten stitches across my forehead. I still remember sitting on the white hospital bed while the pretty blonde nurse looked at the blood draining from the gash in my face and asked me what happened.

  I remember that was the first time I knew my mom, who I always thought was an angel, was also a liar. She told the nurse I was running around “like five year old boys do,” and I fell down the stairs. What a bunch of horse shit. Falling down the stairs looked an awful lot like my dad breaking a beer bottle over my head. He was drunk and angry when I walked into the kitchen asking about dinner.

  Now as a ten year old, I know I’m more of the man in this house than my dad. And right now I feel like a piece of shit hiding under this bed in the dark, but I know if I show myself, he’ll beat mom worse, and I don’t want her to go through that.

  “Bill, you don’t have to do this,” mom says, trying to whisper, but she’s loud enough to hear from under the bedroom door.

  “What the fuck do you know, bitch?” dad slurs his usual insult back at her.

  “Okay Bill, how about we just go to bed? You have to be up early in the morning for work,” mom says, trying to end this nasty situation.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, cunt.”

  And with that I hear a loud smack. I tug my baby brother in closer to me, trying to tuck his head down and cover his ears with my hands. I should go out there and give him a piece of my mind. But before I can leave, I hear my sister crying as my brother shakes in my grasp.

  Why is this our fucking reality?

  Other kids have parents who sit down for dinners together and no one gets beat. At least that’s what I see on television.

  I am too young to be stressed out. Or to even know the definition of the word.

  Chapter one

  Ariana

  A drunken college student stumbles into the emergency room with shards of glass sticking out of bloody arms. He manages to walk over to me, where I stand at a station of computers. Before I can jump out of the way, he leans over, throwing up all over my hot pink Nikes.

  Shit, that’s disgusting. Smelling the alcohol on his breath as he takes his dirty hand to wipe it across his mouth, I can guess with 99 percent accuracy this is one of our typical college brawlers. They always look and act the exact same way.

  “Dude, you need to pull yourself together. Did someone send you back here or did you just walk in?” I ask.

  I surely hope he’s not going to become my patient—I don’t think I’d be too nice to him with his vomit smell carrying into my nostrils.

  “Are you a nurse?” Drunk Boy asks, squinting at me. I wonder how many of me he’s seeing right now. By the way he’s shifting his eyes from right to left, I’d say at least two.

  “No, I’m a doctor.” Not that I mind being mistaken for a nurse, but I did just finish medical school and earn my degree.

  Dr. Ariana Bellisano.

  As egotistical as it is to admit, I love the sound of that. I even enjoy checking off the “Dr.” box on forms now—no more “Ms.” for me. This has been my big dream since I was a little girl and nothing, I mean nothing, was going to get in my way.

  I busted ass to maintain a high GPA through four years of undergrad and four years of med school because I was on a full-ride scholarship. From busting ass to kissing ass, I worked my way into scoring a residency at the best hospital in Chicago—St. Francis.

  And now I have to stare at some punk guy, who’s about my age, giving me shit. Not tonight buddy.

  “Damn, a doctor. You’re fine as hell for a doctor. How old are you mama?” he asks.

  Mama? I’m going to punch this guy myself.

  “You need to walk yourself back to the waiting room for a triage nurse to see you,” I say, pointing him in the right direction and taking off before seeing if he makes it there. I couldn’t care less right about now; I really need to clean my shoes.

  “Hey Ariana, wait up!”

  I turn around seeing my best friend, Drake, walking towards me. A few heads turn as he practically glides down the long hallway like an Abercrombie model. This always happens with Drake. He’s tall with dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, tan skin, and a Hollywood smile. We met in our freshmen year of college in a history class. Turned out we both clicked over the fact that we were hardcore wannabe doctors—me an emergency room physician and Drake a gynecologist. However, Drake is a little more relaxed than me. You know in terms of still having a social life and friends.

  “The guys are meeting for drinks at The Grove tonight—you want to go?”

  “Why do you still hang out with those guys? All they do is get drunk,” I say, walking towards the staff room where I hope to find an extra pair of shoes in my locker. Drake fully embraced the college spirit and still maintains close friendships with his frat brothers. Me? I avoid most people—except somehow Drake squeezed his way through.

  “Getting drunk with the guys will not be looked at as socially acceptable anymore when I’m an attending,” Drake says, tryi
ng to explain his lame reasoning. Drake and I are both in our last year of residency, and then we’ll both officially be what hospitals call ‘attendings’—meaning we won’t have to work under other physicians. We will have our own patients. “I’m doing it now while I still can. And you should join me. You look like you haven’t relaxed since … you were born,” he laughs.

  “I think getting some sleep sounds much better than getting drinks,” I say, slipping out of my shoes, once I realized there were no extras, and running them under the cold water from the sink.

  “You’ve been working your regular shifts plus moonlighting. You look like a goddamn zombie and I’m not even sure if you are showering anymore,” he jokes. “Please tell me you’re showering still.”

  “Ha-ha! Yes, I’m showering, you asshole.”

  A delicious shower at my apartment—that’s what I’m about to take. I’m talking a loofah, vanilla body wash, shaving my legs, and maybe even a cucumber face mask. I may have stretched the truth a little when I told Drake I was still showering. I mean, who has time to do that every single day? Or even every other day? Not me. I’m working every possible shift I can at the emergency room. I want to prove myself now among the staff in hopes of securing my spot as an ‘attending’ once residency is over.

  But somehow my best friend got in my head and I’m going to take a shower to show up at that stupid bar. He’s right—I do need a break, even if just a short one, then I’m coming right back here to catch up on some much needed sleep.

  I pull a cute black dress I’ve never worn out of the back of my closet, curl my long brown hair, and even put on a little bit of makeup. If I’m going out this once, I’m going to live it up. Mark this date down in history.

  “Girl! Where the hell are you going? You look amazing in that dress. I’m borrowing it. Your legs are killer,” Serena, my super sassy roommate, says as she walks into our apartment and smacks my ass.

  “I’m going to The Grove with Drake and some of his friends. Want to join us?”

  Serena puts her purse down in her room directly across the hall from mine. I have to say I’m so glad I met Serena a few years ago. We hit it off when we reached for the same drink in the coffee shop. Normally I’d punch a chick trying to grab my drug of choice, but she was hilarious.

  And one year later, roomies. I’m grateful for her rich parents as well. Even though I have a full ride, Serena scooped me up out of the crappy dorm I was living in to let me live in her apartment in downtown Chicago. It’s much more than any college student I know could afford, and she could have definitely lived here alone, but she’s got a heart of gold.

  Our apartment is stocked with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, granite countertops, walk-in closets, and a picturesque view of the downtown buildings. Nothing I could afford without her.

  Serena is the opposite of me in so many ways—she’s nearly finished with her master’s degree in business, but she’s also a self-described ‘free spirit.’ She’s got blonde hair and blue eyes. Her and Drake would be Ken and Barbie.

  “As hard as it is for me to say this, I can’t go out tonight,” Serena says as she laughs and curls up under her covers. “I’m still hung over from last night. I think I need to stay in. But you can tell that sexy man Drake I said hello and he can drop by our apartment any time he likes,” she adds in a wink as if I didn’t know she’d love to sleep with my best friend. Serena has been trying to get me to set her up with Drake since she met him.

  “Nice try, but you know I don’t play matchmaker for anyone. You can get your own date. Just ask him,” I say, winking back at her while I grab my red clutch and head towards the front door. I see the notification from the Driver app that my ride is waiting outside of our building. Lael from Nashville is giving me a ride to the bar tonight in his silver Toyota Highlander. No way in hell am I going to walk the cold streets alone, especially in these heels. Chicago winters are not for the faint of heart.

  “Alright girl, I hope you feel better. Stay hydrated!” And with that I wish my roommate a good night and get in the car.

  Let’s get this over with.

  Chapter two

  Live band playing rock cover songs—check.

  Drunk girls dancing near live band—check.

  My friends—no check. They aren’t even here yet.

  Of course, I’d be the only one to show up on time. I sit at the bar and shoot Drake a quick text—‘Where are you? I came out to the bar & you’re nowhere to be seen.’

  Less than a minute passes by and my iPhone vibrates on the counter—‘You came?! Damn! This is going to be a night to remember. We’re almost there! Have a drink to get started—or relax in your case. lol See you in 5!’

  “What can I get for you sweetheart?”

  Looking up from my phone I realize the smooth bartender is talking to me.

  “Sex on the Beach?” I say more like a question, unsure of my choice. I can’t believe it’s been this long since I’ve gone to a bar that I’m ordering my freshmen self’s signature drink. He’s definitely going to know I’m an amateur.

  “I’d love to but there isn’t a beach close enough,” he says in a raspy deep voice before turning around to start my drink. Luckily with his back to me he doesn’t see how tongue-tied I get around men flirting with me … or just men in general that I don’t know. I don’t really do the whole flirting thing. My friends better hurry the hell up.

  Since I’ve got some time, I decide to do what I do best—people watch. Watching other people and how they interact with one another, or when they think no one is watching them, is interesting to me.

  Here’s a look around this bar: there’s a redheaded woman with an extremely tight green dress trying to press her full cleavage into a balding guy who is staring so hard at her tits that he probably has no idea what her face looks like.

  Then over on the dance floor, about 15 ladies clearly enjoying a bachelorette party are dancing with pink boas, plastic tiaras, and penis necklaces. Some creepy guys stand at the edge of the dance floor waiting to pounce on the bachelorette girls.

  My eyes scan the dark bar until they land on a pair of eyes staring straight back at me. I almost spill my Sex on the Beach all over myself in shock. I’ve been caught staring! And caught by an insanely handsome man sitting in a dark corner booth all by himself. Yes, it may be dark in here but I can’t pull my eyes away as I take in his thick brown hair, dark smoldering eyes, and get this … he’s wearing a suit that his biceps are straying out of. His eyes remain on mine but he doesn’t crack a smile, just continuing to stare. I should look away—I know I should—but I can’t. It’s like an intense game we are playing with each other. Who will crack first?

  Did they turn up the heat in here?

  I’ve never, and I mean never, had the urge to walk up to a man inside of a bar, but I chug my drink working up the nerve to stand up and maybe approach him.

  “Ariana! I can’t believe you are here!” Drake shouts, showing up out of nowhere, picking me up, and twirling me around.

  “Drake, put me down!” I shout at him. “Yes, I’m at a bar, there’s no need for unwanted touching.” I can’t stand being touched, and Drake of all people should know. It’s just one of my things.

  Drake laughs and gives me a lame ass apology for the touching, and then his friends all say ‘hello’ before they sit down at a giant table. I turn back around to look at Mystery Man and my stomach drops—he’s gone. I quickly scan around the bar to see if he’s moved to a new spot, but I come up short.

  Oh well, you shouldn’t go up to strange men in bars anyway, Ariana! Even if they are drop dead gorgeous.

  “Shots my brothers … and sister!” Drake’s fellow fraternity brother, Trey, says as he passes me a shot that smells like tequila. Oh god, this is going to be a long night.

  More drinks are drunk, stories and jokes are shared, and I find myself having a relaxing time. I don’t remember stumbling into my room later, but I’m sure Drake had something to do w
ith my safe passage home. He has no clue how important that is to me.

  Chapter three

  The hustle and bustle of an emergency room gets my blood pumping. It’s like an adrenaline rush you get when you are about to do something scary yet life changing—like skydiving. When I was a med student, I had to work in all the different areas of the hospital, but this one is by far my favorite. It’s where I thrive.

  “Bellisano, scrub in on this cardiac arrest in operating room two,” Dr. Horton says as he hands me a chart and we stroll towards the operating room.

  “We need the resident to stay on the floor. She can’t go into surgery with you tonight,” says our hospital chief, Dr. Pitters, pulling me away from all the action. Dr. Horton gives me a look of ‘sorry kid I tried to help you’ as he leaves me standing with the chief—who is nothing short of intimidating.

  “Where do you need me, chief?” I ask, totally kissing her ass, and she knows it.

  “Can you swing by the nurses’ station and see what they are up to. Three girls called in sick tonight and they’re swamped—please, for the love of god, help them. The last thing we need are the nurses bitching up a storm,” Chief Pitters says in a tone nicer than her normal shouting. I do what she says and quickly head towards where I know the nurses are frantically running around. When the nurses aren’t happy, no one is happy.

  “Bellisano, can you take room three?” Katie, one of the head nurses, asks while handing me a chart. “A woman in there isn’t talking much. All she’s given us is that she got mugged. She’s beat up pretty badly.”

  “Got it,” I skim through the medical chart, which is mostly empty since the patient isn’t talking, and I head towards room three. When I walk in I have to do a mental gut check to compose myself. This woman, who can’t be older than 35, is covered head-to-toe in bruises, her right eye is swollen completely shut, her bottom lip is busted open, scratches cover her legs, and she may need stitches in her arm.