Chapter 3 - The King of Saint Jude
The lights flickered on automatically—motion sensors triggering overhead industrial halogens that illuminated a massive, high-tech private safehouse.
It wasn't a dirty criminal hideout. It looked like a luxury penthouse blended with a military bunker. Polished concrete floors, leather sofas, a fully stocked medical station in the corner, and a wall lined with encrypted computer monitors.
Mave dragged the man over to the medical table, using every ounce of leverage she had to hoist his heavy torso onto the stainless-steel surface.
"Okay," she panted, wiping sweat and rain from her eyes. "Okay, I got you inside. Now what?"
She looked down at him. In the stark, bright light of the medical lamps, the man’s features were striking. Sharp, high cheekbones, a dark jawline covered in stubble, and a deep, jagged scar running along his left collarbone. Even battered and bloodied, he radiated a cold, dangerous authority.
Mave sprinted to the medical cabinet, tearing open drawers until she found trauma shears, sterile gloves, gauze, and bottles of antiseptic. She had spent two years in community college studying to be a surgical technician before her mother got sick and the tuition money ran out. She knew what blood loss looked like.
She sliced his custom-tailored shirt open from collar to hem.
A collective gasp left her throat. His chest was a map of old scars—blade marks, bullet grazes, and intricate dark tattoos depicting a crowned lion surrounded by thorns. But her eyes locked onto the active wound: a entrance hole two inches below his left ribs.
"Exit wound... please tell me there's an exit wound," she muttered, rolling him onto his side. She checked his back. "Clean exit. Good. The bullet didn't stay inside."
She grabbed a bottle of saline, flushing the wound aggressively. The man stirred, his hands flying up to grip the edges of the metal table so hard his knuckles turned white. A low, guttural groan tore from his throat, but he didn't scream.
"Stay still!" Mave commanded, her professional instincts taking over her fear. "You're hemorrhaging from an intercostal artery. I need to cauterize and suture this right now, or you're going to die on this table."
"Do... it," he wheezed, his gray eye opening slightly, tracking her movements.
Mave didn't hesitate. She prepped a local anesthetic, injected it around the torn tissue, and picked up a medical cautery wand from the tray. The smell of singed flesh filled the room, making her stomach churn, but her hands remained steady. She clamped the bleeding vessel, stitched the deep muscle tissue with rapid, precise sutures, and packed the exterior wound with sterile combat gauze before binding his chest firmly with pressure wraps.
By the time she finished, her apron was ruined, covered in dark crimson, and her hands were shaking violently.
She pulled off her bloody gloves, collapsed onto a metal stool beside the table, and buried her face in her hands.
Titan walked over, resting his massive head against her knee, nudging her gently with his damp snout. Mave let out a shaky laugh, reaching down to scratch behind the dog's soft ears.
"You're a good boy, Titan," she whispered. "Your owner, on the other hand, is a nightmare."
"He's... not used to... being called that," a quiet voice rasped from the table.
Mave looked up. The man was staring at her. The color was slowly returning to his pale face, thanks to the IV bag of saline Mave had hooked up to his arm.
"Who are you?" Mave asked bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. "And don't give me a fake name. I just dug blood out of your ribs."
The man shifted slightly, resting his elbows on the metal table as he sat up, ignoring the flare of pain in his side. He looked around the safehouse, then turned his intense gray eyes back to her.
"My name is Julian Vance," he said quietly.
Mave’s blood ran cold.
Even a poor waitress working double shifts at a dead-end diner knew that name. Julian Vance was the undisputed head of the Vance Syndicate—the private security and criminal empire that controlled every dock, union, and construction site in the city of Saint Jude. The newspapers called him a reclusive philanthropist; the streets knew him as the Ghost King.
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"Jesus," Mave breathed, taking a step back. "I just saved the mob boss."
"I don't like the word 'mob,'" Julian said cleanly, reaching for a glass of water on the tray beside him. His voice was smooth now, a deep, resonant baritone despite his weakness. "I prefer 'asset manager.' And you, Mave... just made yourself the most important person in this city."
