Chapter 3
Dr. Marcus Vance arrived before sunrise, looking disgruntled and clutching his black medical bag like a weapon. He examined Emma under the harsh glare of a bedside lamp while I sat silently across the room in my chair, nursing a cup of black coffee that had gone completely cold.
“Well, she’s suffering from severe exhaustion, mild pneumonia, and malnutrition,” Vance announced, snapping his bag shut as he packed his stethoscope away. “Her immune system crashed. If she had stayed in her drafty apartment tonight, she wouldn’t have woken up.”
He looked over his glasses at me, a hint of professional curiosity in his eyes. “Unusual for a mob boss to turn his master bedroom into an infirmary for a maid, Danny.”
“Just write the prescription, Marcus, and keep your mouth shut,” I warned, my knuckles whitening against the arms of my wheelchair.
After Vance left, I wheeled myself back to the bedside. Emma’s eyes fluttered open slowly, fighting through a heavy haze of fever. She blinked several times, trying to focus on the vaulted ceilings, the silk drapes, and finally, on me sitting sentinel beside her.
Panic instantly flashed across her face. She scrambled backward against the headboard, gasping for air. “Mr. Moretti! I am so sorry—I don't know how I got here—I must have collapsed in the hallway while cleaning—I'll leave right now—”
“Stop talking before you choke on your own lungs,” I ordered, holding up a hand. “You’re in my bed because you passed out on my floor. Vance just left. You have pneumonia.”
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She stared at me, trembling, waiting for the inevitable explosion—the demand for her immediate firing, the threat of legal action, the cruelty she expected from a man nicknamed the Crippled Wolf of the Boardroom.
Instead, I slid a glass of water and a small white pill across the nightstand. “Take your medicine. Then you’re sleeping for the next twenty-four hours in the guest suite on this floor. No arguments.”
