Chapter 2 - The Red Harvest
Three weeks passed in a tense, claustrophobic routine. The penthouse became a fortress, and Serena became its commander.
Salvatore was an impossible patient, but Serena refused to yield an inch. When he threw his medicine, she doubled the dose and hid it in his food. When he refused to do his physical therapy exercises, she simply sat in his armchair, reading a book, telling him that every minute he wasted was a minute his enemies grew stronger.
Slowly, the ice between them began to thaw. Salvatore found himself watching her. He watched the way her thick black hair caught the morning light, the way her round, soft cheeks flushed when she was focused, and the incredible, heavy grace of her body. She was plus-size, beautiful, and completely solid in a world where everyone else was made of smoke and mirrors.
Then, the peace shattered.
It happened at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday. The lights in the penthouse suddenly died. The backup generators hummed for a second before they, too, went silent.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The muffled sound of silenced gunfire echoed from the elevator lobby.
Serena woke instantly from her cot in the corner of Salvatore’s room. Before she could speak, a heavy hand grabbed her arm in the darkness and pulled her down to the floor.
“Quiet,” Salvatore hissed. He had managed to drag himself out of bed, using his powerful arms to slide onto the carpet. In his right hand, he held a heavy chrome matte semi-automatic pistol.
“They bypassed the front gates,” Serena whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs, but her medical instincts took over. She reached into her pocket for her penlight, keeping it off. “Your guards?”
“Dead or turned,” Salvatore growled, his eyes scanning the shadows of the bedroom. “My uncle Anthony has been trying to liquidate my assets since the bomb. This is his final move.”
The bedroom door burst open. A tall man in a tactical vest stepped inside, his rifle raised.
BANG.
Salvatore fired from the floor. The bullet hit the assassin squarely in the chest, throwing him backward into the hallway. But before Salvatore could rack the slide again, a flashbang grenade bounced across the hardwood floor, exploding in a blinding flare of white light and deafening noise.
Serena’s ears rang violently. Disoriented, she tried to stand, but a rough hand grabbed her by the hair.
“Got the nurse!” a voice shouted in the dark. “Leave the cripple! Let him watch the building burn!”
“No!” Serena screamed, fighting back with savage fury. She drove her elbow backward, striking her captor in the nose. The man cursed, blood spurting from his face, but he didn't let go. He dragged her toward the private elevator, his boots slipping on the marble.
From the bedroom floor, Salvatore’s vision cleared just in time to see Serena being dragged away. A primal, terrifying rage exploded inside his chest. This woman had healed his wounds, calmed his fires, and looked at him like he was a man, not a monster or a broken tool.
With a roar that sounded like a dying lion, Salvatore used his elbows to drag his heavy, paralyzed body across the floor. Glass from a shattered vase tore into his chest and arms, leaving a thick trail of blood behind him. He didn’t care. He didn't feel it.
He reached the doorway just as the assassin forced Serena into the elevator. Serena jammed her foot in the door, fighting like a wild animal. With a final, desperate surge of strength, she snatched a heavy silver trophy from a side table and smashed it into the assassin’s temple.
The man groaned, his grip loosening, and he stumbled backward, tumbling over the low service railing of the open-air balcony behind the elevator shaft. A long, fading scream echoed into the night.
Serena collapsed to the floor, panting, her scrubs torn, her arm bleeding from a shallow cut.
That was when the remaining three bodyguards, who had finally secured the lower floors, rushed out of the stairwell, weapons drawn, freezing at the sight of the carnage.
Blood ran in a thin red line across the white marble floor, disappearing beneath Salvatore’s wheelchair, which he had finally managed to pull himself up into using the doorframe.
“Serena,” Salvatore said, his voice quiet, dangerous, and desperate.
She looked up, dust streaking her round cheek. “What?”
“Tell me whose blood that is.”
“Mostly yours,” she said, her voice shaking slightly for the first time. “The rest belongs to the man who tried to drag me into the elevator.”
Salvatore’s eyes went completely black. He looked at his men. “Find him. Find what is left of him.”
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“No,” Serena ordered, crawling over the glass to kneel at Salvatore’s knees, immediately applying the deep pressure to his spine to stop the tremors. “Nobody is going anywhere until I stabilize you. Breathe, Salvatore. Breathe.”
And for the first time in his life, the king of Chicago took a breath because a woman told him to.
