Chapter 2 - The Iron WillFor the next forty-five minutes, the master suite became a battlefield of clinical precision.
Mara worked with absolute focus, ignoring the sweat beading on her forehead and the heavy, tense silence of the room. Vincent didn't make a sound, though the veins in his neck stood out like thick cords, and his left hand gripped the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles turned white.
When she finally finished debriding the wound, flushing it with sterile antibiotics, and applying a clean, professional vacuum-sealed dressing, her scrubs were soaked through, and her hands were slightly shaking.
She stripped off her bloody gloves, dropped them into her biohazard bag, and glared down at him.
“Your fever will spike again in three hours. When it does, you are going to drink two liters of electrolyte solution, and you are going to take the broad-spectrum antibiotics I am leaving on this nightstand.”
Vincent opened his eyes, staring at her with a strange, intense mixture of exhaustion and grudging respect.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then I’ll call Elias, tell him you’re actively choosing assisted suicide, collect my day’s pay, and let the federal marshals figure out what to do with your estate.” Mara snapped her bag shut. “I’ll be back down the hall in the guest suite. Don’t bleed on the sheets.”
As she reached the door, his low voice stopped her.
“Mara.”
She glanced back over her shoulder.
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“Why did your nursing career end two years ago?”
Mara froze. The sterile room suddenly felt very cold. She didn't answer; she simply pulled open the heavy oak door and walked out, leaving the mafia don alone in the sunlight.
