Chapter 1 - The Dark Symphony of Pain
“How do you know that?” Salvatore’s voice dropped, vibrating with a dangerous curiosity that had sent men running for cover.
Serena didn’t look up from her prep tray. She snapped on her nitrile gloves with a sharp, clinical crack that sounded like a small pistol shot in the silent penthouse.
“Because you look grey, Mr. Ritchie. Because your skin is dry, your breathing is shallow, and your body is throwing off heat like a failing radiator,” she said, her voice steady and matter-of-fact. “I don’t need a medical degree to recognize a stubborn man actively trying to commit suicide by neglect. I just need eyes.”
Salvatore’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He had ordered executions with a lighter tone. “You have exactly three seconds to pick up your bag and walk out of that elevator before I ensure you never work in this city again. I will break your hands myself.”
Serena finally met his gaze. Her dark brown eyes were completely devoid of the terror he fed on. Instead, they were filled with a profound, immovable resolve. She walked toward the bed, ignoring the two armed guards at the door who had subtly shifted their hands toward their holsters.
“You can try,” Serena said, stopping right beside his mattress. “But seeing as you can’t even wiggle your big toes right now, I like my odds.”
A collective intake of breath echoed from the guards. No one spoke to Salvatore Ritchie like this. No one survived it.
Salvatore lunged forward, his powerful upper body moving with explosive, lethal speed. His large, scarred hand shot out, wrapping around Serena’s wrist with crushing force. The dark ink of his tattoos flexed against his skin. “I don’t need legs to break a bird’s neck,” he growled, pulling her close enough that she could smell the iron of his feverish blood and the scent of expensive sandalwood cologne. “Get out.”
Serena didn’t pull away. If she struggled, the friction would only make him tighten his grip. Instead, she leaned into his space, using her weight to ground her stance.
“You think you’re a monster because you kill people, Salvatore?” she whispered, her voice dropping to a fierce, quiet frequency that only he could hear. “I look at death every single day. I’ve held the hands of men much worse than you while they whimpered for their mothers. You don’t scare me. Now, you have two choices: you let go of my wrist and let me save your life, or you keep holding it, your appendix-area incision ruptures from sepsis by midnight, and your uncle Anthony takes over the syndicate by tomorrow morning.”
Salvatore froze. His black eyes searched her face, looking for a bluff, a tremor, a hint of greed. He found nothing but absolute, professional certainty.
Slowly, deliberately, his fingers uncoiled from her wrist. He sank back into the pillows, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his collarbone. “You think you’re smart.”
“I know I’m capable,” Serena corrected. She immediately reached for the saline solution. “Now, this is going to hurt. Your nerves are misfiring. Your brain thinks your legs are on fire. I’m going to apply pressure to your lower lumbar region to block the sympathetic nerve pathway. It will feel like I’m driving a spike into your spine. If you bite me, I will sedate you with a horse tranquilizer. Understood?”
Before he could answer, Serena turned him onto his side with practiced, fluid ease. Her hands were strong, her grip unyielding. She didn’t handle him like a fragile glass doll, nor did she treat him like a feared mafia don. She treated him like a patient who needed to be fixed.
As her fingers pressed firmly against the base of his spine—right above the jagged, red scar left by the car bomb—Salvatore let out a guttural, raw growl of agony. His fists dug into the bedsheets, tearing the silk. A flash of blinding white heat shot through his brain. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to tear the walls down.
But then, within ten seconds, the agonizing fire in his legs began to recede, replaced by a strange, cool numbness. For the first time in fourteen days, the phantom burning stopped.
May you like
Salvatore gasped, his forehead pressed against the mattress, his body trembling. He looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “What... what did you do?”
“I did my job,” Serena said, calmly wiping a tear of sweat from his temple with a piece of gauze. “Rest now, Mr. Ritchie. The real war starts tomorrow.”
