Chapter 2 - The Waitress Who Knew Too Much“Step back. Everyone, back away from the table!” Avery’s voice cracked with an authority that left zero room for argument.
The junior executives from Marino Atlantic Holdings scrambled backward, their expensive silk ties suddenly feeling like nooses. Even Claire, the veteran general manager, froze in her tracks, witnessing the quiet, observant waitress transform into an unyielding medical commander.
Avery didn’t hesitate. She swept her hand across the pristine white tablecloth, sending a collection of crystal water glasses and silver butter knives crashing to the floor. The shattering sound echoed through the high-end dining room, but nobody flinched.
“What are you doing to him?!” Grant shouted, lunging forward as Avery ripped open Nicholas’s starched white shirt collar, exposing his sweat-drenched chest and the terrifying, violent pulse hammering against his throat.
“Saving his life,” Avery snapped, locking eyes with Grant. “His systolic pressure is dropping by the second. If we let him slump flat, his carotid artery will completely occlude. We need him upright at a precise forty-five-degree angle to keep perfusion to his brain without blowing out his descending aorta.”
Nicholas let out a low, agonizing groan, his fingers clutching Avery’s wrist with surprising strength. His dark eyes pleaded with her. Don’t let them kill me.
“I’ve got you, Mr. Marino,” Avery said, her tone softening just enough to anchor him to reality. She turned to the trembling busboy standing nearby. “You! Grab four linen napkins from the station, fold them into tight wedges, and slide them behind his lower back. Now! Move!”
The busboy moved like lightning.
Avery pressed two fingers firmly into the hollow of Nicholas's throat, timing the frantic, erratic beats. Her eyes darted to the ornate wall clock above the bar. One hundred and forty beats per minute. Thready and weak.
“Grant,” Avery commanded without looking up. “Check his phone. There’s a specialized encrypted medical app called PulseSync. Unlock it with his thumbprint and call his private cardiologist, Dr. Vance. Tell him Nicholas is experiencing a Type A dissection event in Manhattan, and give him our exact coordinates.”
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Grant stared at her, dumbfounded. “How do you know about PulseSync? That’s restricted to tier-one executives and elite medical registries!”
“Because three years ago, I helped write the protocol for it,” Avery said coldly. “Now unlock the damn phone, or your boss dies before the appetizers are cleared.”
