Chapter 11 - The Inheritance of CrowsThe morning sun broke over Boston Harbor, washing the concrete docks in a cold, unforgiving light. Federal cruisers choked the perimeter of Pier 44, their emergency lights painting the sleek black hulls of the Vale shipping fleet in revolving strokes of crimson and blue.
Inside the private medical suite hastily set up on the flagship yacht, the sterile smell of antiseptic competed with the salt air.
I was waist-deep in triage mode, carefully changing the gauze on Dominic’s abdomen. The re-opened stitches were angry, red, and weeping, a stark physical reminder of how close he had danced with death twice in twelve hours.
“You need a real hospital, Dominic, and you need it an hour ago,” I scolded, securing the medical tape with a sharp snap. “Refusing transport to Mercy West because you wanted to ‘manage the optics’ is a great way to bleed out on your own rug.”
Dominic leaned back against the leather headrest, shirtless, his muscular torso marred by old bullet scars and fresh sutures. He watched me with a quiet, unsettling intensity.
“Mercy West is crawling with Julian’s compromised payroll, Clara,” Dominic said, his voice flat and steady. “Every federal marshal who signed off on my death certificate is still sitting in an office downtown. If I go back there, I don't leave alive.”
The heavy steel door of the cabin hissed open. Marcus stepped in, holding a encrypted tablet computer.
“Boss,” Marcus said, his single eye darting between Dominic and me. “The federal board is staging an emergency vote at the corporate tower. They’re claiming you're legally deceased, and Julian’s proxy is trying to force an immediate liquidation of the entire shipping grid to cover up the cartel ties.”
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Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He simply turned his head toward the window, watching the gulls circle over the choppy gray water.
“Let them try,” Dominic murmured. He shifted his gaze back to me, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Get dressed, Clara. We’re going to a board meeting.”
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