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The tension in the private VIP suite of St. Catherine Medical Center was heavy enough to suffocate. Dominic Moretti’s voice, though rough and fractured from the smoke inhalation that had nearly claimed his life, carried the weight of an absolute execution order. / Chapter 3 / 6

Chapter 3 - The Midnight Blackout

"The hunters are here. And they aren't looking for a cure."

"Don't move," Dominic’s voice commanded through the dark. It was no longer the voice of a patient; it was the voice of a predator in his natural habitat.

Grace’s heart leapt into her throat. "The backup generators should kick on in five seconds..."

Six seconds passed. Then ten. The room remained pitch black. The electronic hum of the life-support machines died completely, replaced by a terrifying, heavy silence.

"They cut the main lines and bypassed the backup grid," Dominic muttered. Grace heard the rustle of sheets as he forcefully tore the IV lines out of his arm. The monitor alarm didn't even sound—the backup battery had been sabotaged.

"Mr. Moretti, your stitches!" Grace cried out, reaching blindly into the dark. Her hands met his bare, muscular chest, feeling the thick bandages over his cracked ribs. He was burning hot, his muscles tense as iron.

"Listen to me very carefully," Dominic whispered, his hands clamping onto her shoulders, pulling her flush against him. The scent of him enveloped her—smoke, leather, and raw power. "The security outside my door is dead or compromised. Vanessa’s father has hired professionals to clean up the mess. They are here for Leo."

"We have to get to the pediatric wing," Grace said, her voice shaking but resolute. "The staff there won't know what's happening. The electronic locks on the nursery doors fail-safe to open when the power is cut!"

"Take this," Dominic said, pressing something heavy, cold, and metallic into her hands. It was a sleek, silenced semi-automatic handgun.

Grace pushed it back into his chest. "I’m a nurse! I don't shoot people!"

"You will if they try to touch that boy," Dominic said grimly. He slid off the bed, his feet hitting the floor. He stumbled slightly, a low groan escaping his lips as his internal injuries protested, but he forced himself upright.

Silently, the door to the suite began to creak open.

A sliver of light from a flashlight swept across the marble floor. Grace held her breath, her hand instinctively gripping the front of Dominic’s hospital gown.

A shadow entered the room, the silhouette of a man holding a weapon equipped with a silencer. He raised the gun, aiming directly at the silhouette of the hospital bed.

Thwip. Thwip.

Two silenced rounds tore into the pillows where Dominic had been lying moments ago.

Before the shooter could realize the bed was empty, Dominic lunged from the shadows with terrifying speed. He slammed the attacker against the wall, his large hand wrapping around the man’s throat, cutting off his scream. With a brutal, practiced twist of his wrist, Dominic disarmed the man and drove the butt of the gun directly into his temple. The assassin crumpled to the floor, unconscious or dead.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

Dominic didn't hesitate. He grabbed the assassin’s flashlight and tactical vest, stepping over the body as if it were nothing more than a piece of trash.

"Grace," he whispered, holding out his hand in the darkness. "Time to go save our boy."

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