Chapter 7 - The Poisoned Well
The winter rain turned into a blinding snowstorm by the end of the week, blanketing the city in thick, silent white drifts.
Despite the harsh weather, Nell insisted on visiting St. Jude’s Hospital to see her mother. Accompanied by Thomas and a heavy security detail of four armed men in plainclothes, Nell walked down the polished linoleum hallways of the hospital’s private VIP wing—a wing fully funded by the Westbrook Foundation.
Inside room 402, Margaret Bennett lay in a mechanical bed. She looked frail, her hair grey and silver, but her skin had regained a healthy color thanks to the advanced medical care and continuous dialysis treatments.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Margaret smiled weakly, reaching out her thin arm as Nell rushed to her bedside, taking her mother’s hands into her own.
“Mom,” Nell sobbed softly, resting her cheek against her mother’s arm. “How are you feeling today? Are the doctors treating you well?”
“They’re treating me like royalty, Nell,” Margaret chuckled softly, glancing toward the door where Thomas stood guard like a silent statue. “Though all these scary men in suits sitting outside my door are making the nurses nervous! Nell... what is happening? Where did you get the money for all of this? The hospital director told me my entire transplant bill has been paid in full.”
Nell felt a sting of guilt. She hadn't told her mother the full truth about Dorian Westbrook’s dark background. She had merely told her that she had been promoted to a high-paying administrative position within a massive private foundation.
“It’s a good company, Mom,” Nell lied gently, kissing her mother’s forehead. “The head of the foundation... he’s a generous man. He takes care of his people.”
Before Margaret could ask further questions, a commotion broke out in the hallway outside.
Shouting. The sound of heavy footsteps. A metallic crash.
Thomas instantly drew a suppressed pistol from his shoulder holster, pushing Nell behind him and stepping in front of Margaret’s bed. “Stay down, Miss Bennett!”
The wooden door of the hospital room blew inward, splintering off its hinges as two men in tactical gear burst inside. Thomas fired twice with deadly accuracy, dropping the first attacker instantly. But the second attacker threw a small glass canister onto the floor.
The canister shattered, instantly releasing a thick, grey cloud of sweet-smelling tear gas into the room.
Nell choked, her eyes burning as she dropped to her knees beside her mother’s bed. “Mom!”
Through the thick smoke, a figure walked into the room wearing a gas mask. It wasn't a mercenary—it was a woman in a heavy fur coat.
Celine Rowe.
Celine stepped over the fallen guards, her eyes gleaming with psychotic delight through the glass lenses of her mask. She carried a small, stainless-steel syringe filled with a clear, deadly liquid.
“Hello, Nell,” Celine’s voice sounded muffled yet sickeningly sweet behind the mask. “Did you really think you could take my life, my man, and my status, and get away with it?”
“Celine... please...” Nell gasped, coughing violently as the gas filled her lungs, blinding her vision. “Leave my mother out of this... take me...”
“Oh, I’m taking everything,” Celine hissed. She stepped toward Margaret’s life-support machine, reaching out with the syringe toward the intravenous saline bag feeding directly into Margaret’s arm. “Once your mother dies of a sudden 'cardiac arrest,' you’ll be broken. And once you’re broken, Dorian will dump you back into the trash where he found you.”
“No!” Nell shrieked. With every ounce of strength left in her body, she lunged through the smoke, tackling Celine’s legs.
Both women crashed heavily onto the floor. The syringe flew out of Celine’s hand, shattering against the metal base of the hospital bed.
Celine screamed in rage, grabbing Nell by her hair and pulling her head back brutally. “You filthy little bitch!” Celine raised a heavy brass flashlight she carried in her pocket, preparing to strike Nell across the temple.
BANG.
A single heavy gunshot echoed through the room.
The brass flashlight dropped from Celine’s hand as a bullet passed through the wall just inches above her head, showering her in plaster dust.
Through the clearing smoke, a towering figure stepped into the room.
Dorian Westbrook stood framed by the doorway. He held a massive black revolver in his hand, smoke curling from the barrel. His dark eyes were completely pitch black with an unholy, demonic rage. Behind him stood a dozen heavily armed syndicate soldiers, having completely wiped out the hit squad in the hallway.
Celine froze on the floor, her face turning pale green beneath her mask as she looked up at the man she had once tried to marry.
“Dorian...” Celine whimpered, scrambling backward until her back hit the wall.
Dorian walked into the room, stepping past the chaos, past the smoke, completely ignoring Celine for a moment. He dropped to one knee beside Nell, pulling her weak, coughing body up into his powerful arms.
“I’ve got you,” Dorian whispered, his deep voice trembling slightly as he held Nell close against his chest. “I’ve got you, Nell. You’re safe.”
Nell buried her face in his wool coat, clutching his lapels as tears streamed down her face. “My mom... save my mom...”
Dorian looked over at his medical team, who rushed into the room to secure Margaret and clear the gas. Then, slowly, Dorian stood up, turning his attention to Celine, who was cowering against the wall.
He did not raise his gun. He simply looked down at her like an insect waiting to be crushed.
“Thomas,” Dorian said coldly.
May you like
“Yes, Boss?” Thomas coughed, standing up from behind the overturned table.
“Take Miss Rowe to the harbor warehouse,” Dorian ordered in a voice devoid of humanity. “Call Senator Rowe. Tell him to come collect his daughter... and tell him to bring the deeds to all his shipping lines if he wants her to breathe another day.”
