Chapter 4 - The Barrel of a Colt
Before Clara could pivot to run, a heavy hand clamped over her mouth, and an iron forearm locked around her waist, hoisting her off her feet with effortless power.
She didn't scream. Years of dealing with violent emergency room patients had taught her that panic was a luxury that cost lives. Instead, she drove her heel backward, striking her captor squarely in the shin with the hard edge of her sensible maid’s shoe.
The man grunted, his grip loosening just enough for Clara to wrench herself free, spinning around with her fists raised.
It was the driver with the scarred eyebrow.
He didn't look angry; he looked almost impressed as he rubbed his shin, stepping out of the shadows with a suppressed pistol drawn and pointed directly at the center of Clara’s forehead.
“Quiet, sweet-talker,” the driver growled. “The boss wants a word.”
Before Clara could reply, the study door swung wide open. Lorenzo Moretti stood in the frame, his charcoal jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and faint, jagged scars from old knife wounds.
He looked down at Clara, then up at the driver.
“Inside,” Lorenzo said.
Clara was shoved forward onto the rich Turkish rug of the study. Rico sat in a leather armchair, cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade, while two other armed guards stationed themselves by the reinforced windows.
Lorenzo walked slowly toward her, stopping just two feet away. He didn't pull a gun; he didn't need to. His presence was a physical weight that pressed down on the room.
“Clara Hayes,” Lorenzo said, testing the name on his tongue like a bad taste. “Or should I call you Dr. Halloway?”
The air in the room vanished.
Clara stared straight into his dark, merciless eyes. She didn't drop her gaze. If she showed fear now, she was dead.
“So you know,” Clara said, her voice steady and crisp, entirely devoid of the meek maid persona.
“I know that Mount Sage Medical Center spent six months trying to bury a malpractice suit involving a dead senator’s son,” Lorenzo said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a menacing purr. “I know that the security footage from that operating room was wiped clean by an elite hacker using an IP address traced right to your apartment. And I know that a woman running from federal indictment doesn't apply to be a maid in a New Jersey mob mansion unless she’s either suicidal or working for someone else.”
“I’m not working for anyone,” Clara said coldly.
“Then why are you here?” Lorenzo barked, his fist slamming down onto the heavy oak desk, making the crystal decanter jump. “Why are you lurking in my hallways? Who sent you?”
“No one sent me!” Clara fired back, stepping forward into his personal space, her eyes flashing with a fury that stunned the room into silence. “I came here because your security system is a joke, your guards are complacent, and your daughter is rotting away in a sunroom because you’re too proud to admit that the expensive butchers you hired don't know the first thing about neuro-plastic regeneration!”
Rico leaped out of his chair, his switchblade snapping open with a sharp clack. “Boss, let me put a bullet through her skull right now. She’s a federal plant or a lunatic.”
Lorenzo held up a single hand, his eyes locked onto Clara. He didn't blink. He looked at her not with anger, but with a terrifying, calculated curiosity.
“You talk a lot of dangerous nonsense for a woman standing at the wrong end of a loaded gun,” Lorenzo whispered.
“It’s not nonsense,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a fierce, clinical whisper. “Your daughter isn't permanently paralyzed, Mr. Moretti. Her spinal cord wasn't severed. It’s compressed by scar tissue from her accident that your high-priced Swiss doctors were too cowardly to operate on because they were afraid of failing the great Lorenzo Moretti. If they touch her again, she’ll never walk. But if I operate—if I clear that compression—she’ll stand on her own two feet within forty-eight hours.”
The room went dead silent. You could hear the rain lashing against the massive glass windows outside.
May you like
Lorenzo stared at her for ten agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he reached inside his jacket, drew a heavy, matte-black Colt .45, and cocked the hammer with a sharp, echoing click.
He pressed the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Clara’s forehead.
