Chapter 2 - The Crimson AuditThe black-market medic arrived not in an ambulance, but through the service alley in the back of a blacked-out SUV, carrying a metal trauma case that looked like it belonged in a battlefield hospital.
His name was Dr. Alan Vance, a disgraced former ER surgeon who traded his medical license for cash payouts from men like Rafael Corbin. When Vance walked into the private dining room, he took one look at the black stains around Rafael’s mouth, smelled the bitter, herbal trace of monkshood in the air, and looked at me as if I were a ghost.
"Nell?" Vance muttered, dropping his case. "What the hell are you doing here? You're supposed to be—"
"Stripped of my credentials, legally eviscerated, and scrubbing pots for minimum wage?" I finished for him, my voice completely flat. "Yes, Alan. Life takes strange turns."
Vincenzo stepped between us, his posture rigid. "You know each other?"
"She was the best toxicologist in Boston before the pharmaceutical lawsuits broke her," Vance said, his eyes darting nervously to Rafael, who was breathing easier now that the charcoal had neutralized the bulk of the poison. "If she says it's aconitine, it's aconitine. The atropine drip needs to start immediately to stabilize his conduction pathways."
Vance popped open his case, pulled out an IV bag, and went to work with efficient, practiced hands. Within minutes, a clear line was running into Rafael’s arm. The dangerous gray pallor on the boss's face began to recede, replaced by a dull, exhausted flush.
Rafael shifted, his eyes locking onto mine with terrifying clarity.
"You saved my life," Rafael whispered, his voice like gravel grinding together.
"I kept you from dying on a restaurant floor," I corrected, unknotting my stained apron and letting it drop onto the mahogany table. "Which means I am officially late for finishing the soup bowls. If you'll excuse me."
I turned to walk away, but Vincenzo’s hand shot out, catching my wrist. His grip was ironclad, but not cruel.
"You don't walk away from Rafael Corbin like nothing happened," Vincenzo said softly.
Rafael raised a pale hand, signaling for Vincenzo to let go. I pulled my arm back, rubbing my wrist, glaring down at the most dangerous man in Rhode Island.
"You didn't eat the same thing as everyone else," I said, my professional curiosity suddenly overriding my self-preservation instinct. "Aconitine has a distinct, intensely bitter flavor. Anyone taking a normal bite would have spat it out instantly. Which means it wasn't in the food."
Rafael stared at me, a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes. "Go on."
"It was in the rim of your glass," I said, glancing at the spilled red wine on the floor. "Someone painted the extract directly onto the glass before it was poured. A micro-dose. Enough to numb the lips on contact, ensuring rapid mucosal absorption before the wine even hit your palate."
The room went dead silent. The six armed men exchanged dark, lethal glances.
Vincenzo turned his sharp gaze toward the kitchen doors. "Only three people handled that bottle and those glasses tonight. The sommelier, the head waiter, and..."
"And the person who plated the private reserve," I finished.
May you like
Rafael pushed himself up into a sitting position, ignoring Vance’s frantic protests. The boss adjusted his jacket, his dark eyes burning with cold, absolute fury.
"Find him," Rafael rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "And bring him to the warehouse."
