Chapter 4 - The Race Against the Clock“Take this!” Avery tossed the micro-fob to the youngest junior executive at the table, a terrified twenty-something analyst named Leo. “Sprint out the side exit to the valet bay. The Maybach is parked in stall twelve. Press the fob twice to unlock the trunk, grab the black Pelican case, and run back here like your entire career and life depend on it—because they do!”
Leo caught the fob out of the air, swallowed hard, and bolted toward the service exit, knocking a chair slightly off balance before disappearing into the rainy Manhattan night.
“Avery,” Dr. Vance’s voice crackled through the speaker on the table, loud enough for half the room to hear. “Are you monitoring his airway? If he vomits, aspiration will kill him instantly given his current neurological status.”
“I have him positioned at forty-five degrees, chin elevated,” Avery replied smoothly, her fingers pressing lightly against Nicholas’s carotid pulse, tracking the terrifying rhythm. She kept her eyes locked on the billionaire’s dark, sweat-filmed eyes. “Stay with me, Mr. Marino. Look at my eyes. Do not close them.”
Nicholas let out a ragged breath, his chest heaving. The sheer agony etched across his face was agonizing to witness, yet beneath the pain was a flicker of profound shock. He had spent his entire life surrounded by corporate sharks, sycophants, and high-paid fixers who fawned over his money while plotting his downfall. None of them had ever looked at him with raw, uncalculated human empathy—let alone taken command of his life with the surgical precision of a seasoned general.
“You’re… remarkable,” Nicholas gasped, his voice trembling violently.
“Save your breath for breathing, billionaire,” Avery retorted with a faint, fierce smile. “You can tip me later.”
A murmur rippled through the surrounding diners. High-society socialites and Wall Street traders stood on their tiptoes, whispering frantically. Word was already spreading like wildfire: Nicholas Marino, the titan of Marino Atlantic Holdings, was dying on table fourteen, and his life was being held together by a waitress.
Claire, the general manager, nervously approached Avery, whispering frantically, “Avery, the police are outside, and the media trucks are pulling up across the street. If he dies here, Hawthorne House is finished. We’ll be ruined!”
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Without turning her head, Avery shot Claire a look so ice-cold it made the manager step back three paces.
“Then I suggest you pray he lives, Claire, because right now, the only thing keeping this restaurant from becoming a crime scene is my thumb on his pulse.”
