The grip around my wrist felt like a steel vise. Pain shot up my arm, sharp and immediate, as Nicholas’s fingers tightened until my pulse throbbed against his knuckles.

The safehouse in Lake Forest was not a hidden bunker; it was a sprawling, gated estate tucked away behind miles of thick pine trees and high stone walls. It looked more like a European sanctuary than a mafia hideout.

By the time Viktor backed the SUV into the private garage, Nicholas could barely walk. The adrenaline from the escape had worn off, leaving his body depleted, feverish, and racked with agony.

"Get him to the medical room on the second floor!" I commanded, dropping my scared persona and stepping fully into my role as a medical professional. "I need sterile gloves, surgical thread, antiseptic, and IV fluids. Now!"

Viktor nodded, slinging Nicholas’s arm over his broad shoulder and supporting his weight as we rushed upstairs.

The second floor was equipped like a mini surgical suite—Nicholas had built it years ago for off-the-books emergencies. I scrubbed my hands franticly at the sink, pulled on latex gloves, and turned to Nicholas, who was sitting on the examination table, his hospital gown soaked in blood and rainwater.

"This is going to hurt," I warned, holding up a bottle of antiseptic and a curved suture needle. "I don't have time to administer local anesthesia."

Nicholas looked up at me, a faint, mocking smile playing on his pale lips. "Do your worst, Nurse Clara. I’ve suffered worse than a needle."

I cut away the bloody cloth, revealing a long, jagged tear along his lower ribs—the surgical incision from his gunshot wound six months ago that had reopened during our violent escape. Blood was oozing steadily from the torn tissue.

I poured the antiseptic directly over the wound.

Nicholas didn't scream. He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw flexing so hard I heard his teeth grind, his knuckles turning pure white as he gripped the edges of the stainless steel table. Sweat poured off his forehead, but he didn't make a sound.

I worked quickly, my fingers moving with practiced, rhythmic precision. Stitch by stitch, I closed the deep tear, pulling the flesh together and knotting the black silk thread tight. I cleaned the surrounding skin, applied a thick layer of antibiotic ointment, and wrapped his torso in heavy medical bandages.

"Done," I breathed, taking off my bloody gloves and tossing them into the trash bin. "You're lucky the internal stitches held. If you tear that open again, you'll bleed into your abdominal cavity, and even I won't be able to save you."

Nicholas let out a long, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling slowly. He looked up at me, his gaze sweeping over my waterlogged, blood-stained scrubs, my messy hair, and my exhausted eyes.

"You're remarkably calm for a woman who was reading poetry three hours ago," he observed, his voice low and rich.

"I'm not calm," I said, my voice cracking slightly as the reality of everything finally crashed down on me. I sat down on a nearby stool, burying my face in my hands. "I'm terrified. I just helped a criminal escape. I assaulted a guard. I helped explode a hospital gas valve. I am going to prison for the rest of my life."

I felt a warm hand touch my shoulder.

I looked up. Nicholas had slid off the table and was standing in front of me, wrapped in a black silk robe that Viktor had brought him. He reached down, taking my chin gently between his fingers, forcing me to look into his dark, mesmerizing eyes.

"You are not going to prison, Clara," Nicholas said, his tone absolute, carrying a weight that made it sound like an unalterable decree of nature. "You are under the protection of Nicholas Castellano. No police force, no federal agent, and no syndicate hitman will ever touch a hair on your head."

"And what about you?" I whispered, searching his eyes. "What happens tomorrow night at the Drake Hotel?"

"Tomorrow night, I execute the men who put me in that coma," Nicholas said coldly. "Vincent. Marco. And the board members of St. Jude’s who took money to starve me to death."

"Vincent?" I asked. "Who is Vincent?"