Chapter 2 - Inside the Medical Wing

Down the hall, the heavy oak doors of the private medical suite slammed shut. Roman Valente was inside, hooked up to emergency oxygen.

Vivian Cross was shoved into a corner chair by two of Roman’s elite bodyguards, her pristine blonde hair disheveled, her pale leather purse sitting open on a mahogany side table like a confession box. She was sobbing, but it wasn't tears of remorse—it was pure, unadulterated panic. She hadn't planned the hit; she had just been the patsy. Someone had slipped the inhaler into her bag while she was distracted, setting her up to take the fall for a premeditated assassination.

I stood outside the glass partition, pretending to polish the silver tray while my mind raced a mile a minute.

If Roman died on that table, the Chicago syndicate would instantly tear itself apart. And anyone who had witnessed the setup—anyone holding incriminating evidence like a modified medical chart—would be eliminated as a loose end.

The door to the medical suite clicked open. Dr. Marcus Vance stepped out, his face pale, wiping sweat from his forehead. Dr. Vance was the Valente family physician, a man whose loyalty had been bought and paid for a decade ago.

Dante appeared beside him instantly. “Is he stable?”

“Barely,” Vance muttered, keeping his voice low. “The hypoxia caused minor neurological stress. If he had gone another thirty seconds without oxygen, his brain function would have been compromised permanently. Someone tampered with his daily preventative regimen, Dante. This wasn't an accidental omission.”

Dante nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing. He already knew. He didn't look surprised; he looked disappointed that his brother was still breathing.

“Find out who had access to the primary dispensary database today,” Dante ordered.

May you like

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me...

The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the distant murmur of the jazz t...

“I already checked,” Vance whispered back, glancing nervously down the corridor toward where I stood. “Only three people have clearance codes for the high-tier narcotic and respiratory lockers: You, Roman... and Elena.”

Elena Valente. Roman’s wife.