Chapter 7 - Midnight at the Clinic
The Sterling Eye Institute in Buckhead was an imposing glass-and-marble medical facility nestled among elite private medical practices near Piedmont Hospital.
At 2:30 AM, the building was dark, save for the top-floor executive suite where Dr. Richard Sterling’s private office was located.
Rain washed over the glass exterior as my three armored vehicles pulled into the underground parking garage. My tactical team moved like black ghosts, disabling the building’s security cameras and cutting the silent alarm wires within three minutes.
We took the private service elevator straight to the fifth floor.
The doors slid open quietly. The hallway smelled of high-end floor wax, expensive leather, and antiseptic.
At the end of the corridor, light spilled beneath the double glass doors of Sterling’s office.
I walked up to the door, didn't bother knocking, and kicked the lock mechanism right out of the frame with a heavy thud.
BOOM!
The glass doors burst open.
Dr. Richard Sterling—dressed in an immaculate charcoal suit, sitting at a massive glass desk covered in legal documents and passport photos—jumped out of his leather chair, dropping a silver fountain pen onto the carpet.
Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavy coat with a scarred jaw—Tommy “The Hammer” Morello, Don Morello’s chief enforcer from Chicago.
“What the hell?!” Sterling yelled, his hands flying up in shock.
Tommy Morello reached instantly for the heavy 1911 pistol tucked into his shoulder holster, but before his fingers could clear the leather, Paul fired two suppressed shots from the doorway.
THWIP. THWIP.
Both rounds caught Tommy in his right shoulder and knee. He collapsed to the floor with a muffled scream, his pistol clattering across the slick hardwood floor.
My tactical team flooded the room, pinning Tommy to the ground, disarming him, and securing the hallway.
I walked into the office slowly, stepping over the puddle of blood on the floor, stopping right in front of Sterling’s desk.
Sterling was shaking violently, his face turning the color of chalk as he recognized my face. “V-Vincent... Mr. Moretti! What... what is the meaning of this intrusion?!”
I reached across his desk, grabbed the stack of legal guardianship papers he had been reviewing, and flipped through them.
Guardianship Transfer Agreement. Subject: Lila Moretti. Designated Legal Custodian: Victoria Moretti / Morello Asset Management LLC.
I tossed the papers into the small glass fireplace burning against the office wall. They caught fire instantly, curling into black ash within seconds.
“You’re a brilliant doctor, Richard,” I said, my voice smooth as silk, yet colder than the rain outside. “A top graduate from Johns Hopkins. A pioneer in neuro-ophthalmology.”
“Vincent... please!” Sterling stammered, backing up against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Atlanta skyline. “Whatever Victoria told you... she’s lying! She came to me! She wanted the medical reports falsified!”
I walked around the desk, stopping two feet away from him.
“I talked to Vance, Richard,” I said quietly. “I have the ledger. I have the wire receipts from Chicago. I have the formula sheets for the methanol compound.”
Sterling’s knees buckled. He slid down the glass window, collapsing into a sitting position on the floor, weeping hysterically. “They were going to kill my daughter, Vincent! Don Morello had men outside her school in Boston! I had no choice! I had to give them a way into your empire!”
I looked down at the pathetic man cowering at my feet.
“You had a choice, Richard,” I whispered, leaning down until my eyes were inches from his. “You could have come to me. You could have told me Chicago was threatening your family, and I would have buried them for you. Instead, you decided to blind my seven-year-old child for six million dollars.”
Sterling sobbed uncontrollably, pressing his palms against his face. “Please... don't kill me... please...”
I stood up, turning my back to him.
“I’m not going to kill you, Richard,” I said flatly. “Death is too fast. Death doesn't teach you what it feels like to live in the dark.”
I signaled Marcus.
Marcus stepped forward holding a small leather case containing two pre-filled syringes provided by Vance—a concentrated dose of the same compound Sterling had designed for my daughter.
Sterling’s eyes widened in absolute, apocalyptic terror as he realized what was happening. “No! NO! NOT THAT! PLEASE! MY EYES! NOT MY EYES!”
He fought, screamed, and thrusted violently, but two six-foot-four enforcers held him pinned flat against the floorboards like a wooden beam.
“Administer it,” I growled, stepping out onto the balcony into the cool night rain.
As Sterling’s horrifying shrieks echoed through the high-rise office building, I pulled my phone from my coat and dialed a private number in Chicago.
The line rang three times before a raspy, aged voice answered.
“Morello,” the old crime boss growled into the receiver.
“Don Morello,” I said, my voice carrying across three hundred miles of telephone wire like a death sentence. “This is Vincent Moretti.”
A heavy pause fell over the line.
“Moretti,” Morello said carefully. “To what do I owe the late-night call?”
“Your enforcer Tommy is currently bleeding on the floor of a clinic in Buckhead,” I stated calmly, watching the city lights of Atlanta twinkle through the rain. “And your deal for my daughter’s trust fund is dead.”
Morello’s breath hitched. “Listen to me, Moretti—”
“No, Don Morello,” I interrupted, my tone so quiet, so lethal, that the old man on the other end went completely silent. “You listen to me. If I ever see a single man from Chicago step foot south of the Tennessee border again, I won't just destroy your business. I will personally burn your family name off the face of this earth. Do we understand each other?”
A long, heavy beat passed.
“Understood,” Morello whispered raspy.
I hung up the phone, tossed it into the rain below, and walked back inside the office.
May you like
Sterling was unconscious on the carpet, his eyes wide, milky, and permanently blind. Tommy Morello was being dragged away in cuffs to a private boat waiting at the Savannah docks.
“Clean the room,” I ordered Marcus. “And prepare the car. I’m going back to my daughter.”
