Chapter 3 - BLOOD ON THE MARBLE
The prep work took twenty minutes. It felt like twenty seconds.
"I need every clean towel in this penthouse," I said, snapping out orders as I dragged the high-intensity halogen reading lamp across the imported wool carpet and positioned it directly over Gabriel's lower back. "I need boiling water, a bottle of high-proof liquor—vodka or grain alcohol, not scotch—and the surgical tray from the emergency kit in the bathroom."
Luca moved with an efficiency born of military drill, dropping his skepticism the moment he realized Gabriel had made his choice. In the underworld, loyalty to Gabriel Moretti was absolute; if the boss chose to trust this strange, fearless woman, Luca would die protecting her while she worked.
Gabriel was lying prone on his stomach, his face turned toward the expansive glass windows that looked out over the glittering grid of Chicago. His teeth were clenched around a rolled leather belt.
"I have two vials of 2% lidocaine in my kit," I told him, scrubbing my hands vigorously with Betadine at the bedside table. "It will numb the skin and the superficial fascia. It will not numb the deep periosteum, and it will definitely not numb the nerve roots if the capsule has adhered to the dura. You will feel pain that would make a grown man pass out."
Gabriel let out a low, muffled rasp through the leather. "Do it."
I injected the local anesthetic in a diamond pattern around the indurated scar tissue. Gabriel’s back muscles convulsed, knotted ropes of iron twitching under the pale, clammy skin. I waited four minutes for the vasoconstrictor in the epinephrine to take effect, watching his vitals on the portable monitor I had clamped to his earlobe.
Pulse: 148. Blood pressure: 88 over 55. He was sliding rapidly into septic shock.
"Scalpel," I muttered, holding my hand out. Luca slapped the sterile handle into my palm with the precision of a surgical tech.
"Hold his pelvis," I commanded Luca. "Lean your full body weight on him. If he bucks when I breach the deep fascia, the blade could lacerate his spinal cord, and he’ll never walk again."
Luca threw his broad chest across Gabriel's hips, anchoring the massive man to the mattress.
I took a breath, centered my hands, and cut.
The old incision split easily, releasing a dark, viscous exudate that smelled foully of chemical decomposition. I worked quickly, using suction from a manual handheld bulb to clear the field. Gabriel’s back arched beneath Luca’s weight, a guttural groan ripping from his throat, muffled only by the thick leather between his teeth. Sweat poured from his brow, pooling on the sheet.
"Steady," I whispered, my voice taking on the rhythmic, hypnotic calm of an experienced trauma nurse. "I'm through the subcutaneous fat. Deep fascia is exposed. Luca, give me retraction."
Luca used two sterile retractor prongs to pull the edges of the incision apart. Deep within the pocket of inflamed muscle tissue, nestled right between the spinous processes of the T10 and T11 vertebrae, lay something artificial.
It was a cylindrical capsule, roughly the size of a thumb drive, made of polished surgical titanium with micro-perforations along its sides. A faint, amber fluid was oozing from the microscopic ports directly into the surrounding capillary bed.
"My God," Luca breathed. "It's mechanical."
"It's an automated intrathecal infusion device," I said, my fingers maneuvering delicate micro-forceps into the narrow wound. "Controlled release. Probably programmed to dispense a neurotoxic synthetic peptide over twenty-one days. Just long enough to make it look like a postoperative infection from the gunshot wound. Vincent wasn't just killing him. He was murdering him by inches so the family would have time to transition power smoothly to himself."
"Can you pull it?" Luca asked, his voice shaking.
"It has anchor tines," I said, sweat stinging my own eyes. "Tiny titanium hooks deployed into the supraspinous ligament to prevent migration. If I pull blindly, I'll tear the ligament."
Suddenly, the elevator doors at the end of the private grand foyer chimed.
Luca’s head snapped toward the sound. "The lobby concierge didn't announce anyone."
"Who has keycard access?" I asked without lifting my eyes from the wound, my forceps delicately exploring the base of the metal cylinder.
"Nobody," Luca hissed, drawing his firearm with one hand while keeping Gabriel pinned with the other. "Nobody except Vincent's personal security detail."
A heavy thud echoed from the double oak doors leading into the penthouse hallway. Someone had just bypassed the penthouse elevator and used a master service key on the emergency stairwell.
"Luca," Gabriel grunted, spitting the belt from his mouth, his voice raw and ragged. "Get... the door."
"Boss, I can't leave you alone with her—"
"Go!" Gabriel snarled.
Luca released his grip on Gabriel's hips and moved swiftly toward the foyer, his heavy boots making no sound on the runner rugs. A second later, the sharp, deafening *crack* of a silenced pistol echoed through the expansive apartment, followed by the shattering of Italian marble tile.
Men had breached the perimeter.
"Hold still, Gabriel!" I shouted, the adrenaline surging through my veins like pure electricity. "Don't move an inch!"
"Elena—"
"I said hold still!"
With the sounds of close-quarters combat erupting fifty feet away—Luca trading suppressed fire with unknown intruders—I tuned out the world. The only thing that existed was the metal cylinder, the delicate fibers of the ligament, and the edge of my scalpel.
I slipped the tip of the blade behind the first titanium tine, levered it upward, and severed the fibrous sheath holding it. Gabriel let out a scream that shook the windows, his fingernails digging through the mattress until the fabric shredded.
*One tine free.*
Down the hall, a body slammed against the wall, accompanied by a wet, choking cough. A man yelled in Italian, followed by two double-taps from Luca's Glock.
*Second tine free.*
"Almost there," I muttered, tears of strain blurring my vision as I blinked them away. "Gabriel, stay with me! Don't you dare pass out!"
"I'm... right... here," he gasped, his forehead pressed so hard into the bed that blood was pooling beneath his skin.
I slid the forceps under the main body of the capsule, clamped the serrated jaws tight, and twisted clockwise ninety degrees. The remaining hooks sheared free from the scar tissue.
With a smooth, upward pull, I extracted the capsule.
A rush of dark, infected fluid followed it. I immediately packed the wound with sterile gauze, leaning my entire upper body weight over his back to achieve hemostasis.
Footsteps hurried toward the bedroom. Fast, heavy, and uneven.
I grabbed the spare scalpel from the tray, spun around on my knees on the bed, and held the blade out like a dagger, ready to slash the throat of whoever rounded the corner.
Luca stumbled into the bedroom frame. His face was splattered with blood, his left shoulder bleeding freely through a jagged hole in his suit, but he was still holding his weapon.
"Three of them," Luca wheezed, slumping against the doorframe. "Vincent’s private cleaners. They had body bags in their duffels."
He looked at me, saw the bloody metal cylinder gleaming in the stainless-steel kidney dish beside Gabriel, and then looked at Gabriel’s back, where I was holding firm pressure.
"Did you get it?" Luca asked, his voice cracking.
"I got it," I said, panting, my scrubs drenched in blood that wasn't mine.
On the bed, Gabriel let out a long, shuddering sigh. For the first time in three weeks, the suffocating tension in his neck and shoulders eased. His breathing slowed from a frantic pant to a deep, rhythmic draft.
He turned his head slowly, looking at the bloody capsule in the tray, then looked up at me. His eyes were clear now—free from the haze of the fever, dark as midnight, and terrifyingly alive.
"Elena," he murmured.
"Lie still," I ordered, my voice trembling slightly as the shock began to hit me. "You still need sixteen stitches, four liters of IV saline, and massive doses of antibiotics."
Gabriel reached up. His hand wasn't shaking anymore. He caught my wrist—not with the brutal grip of a drowning man, but with a firm, deliberate reverence that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
"You saved my life," he said quietly.
"I did my job," I whispered.
May you like
"No," Gabriel murmured, his dark eyes locking onto mine with the weight of an empire behind them. "You chose a side. And in this city, Nurse Vance... nobody who chooses Gabriel Moretti ever gets to walk away clean."
***
