Chapter 4 - The Clean-UpBy 5:00 AM, the penthouse looked less like a war zone and more like a high-security medical ward.
Luca returned from the basement holding facility alone, his knuckles bruised, his expression grim. He walked straight into the master suite, where I was currently administering an intravenous glucose and antidote drip to flush the remaining metabolic blockers from Gabriel’s system.
“Vincent’s locked away downstairs,” Luca reported, leaning against the doorframe. “He’s not talking yet, but he will. What about Vale?”
“My contacts in the private surgical network say Vale’s town car was spotted heading toward O’Hare fifteen minutes ago,” Gabriel said from the bed. He was sitting up now, fully alert, color returning slightly to his cheeks as the antidote began to take effect. He looked down at his right hand, flexing his fingers. The tremor was gone. “He’s running.”
“Not if we intercept him before he hits the tarmac,” I said, stripping off my surgical gloves and tossing them into the bin.
Luca blinked. “We? Nurse, this isn't an emergency room shift. This is organized crime retaliation.”
“Mr. Ferraro, Dr. Vale has my patient’s medical files, forged surgical logs, and enough synthetic neurotoxins in his private clinic to kill half of Chicago,” I said, grabbing my leather jacket from the chair. “If he boards a private flight to Zurich, my professional license is tied to whatever fraudulent post-op reports he filed under my agency's registry. I am not letting a hack plastic surgeon ruin my career.”
Gabriel stared at me for a beat, then let out a low, rumbling laugh that sounded dangerously like approval.
“Luca,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into the commanding tone of a man who ruled a syndicate. “Get the armored SUV ready. Take four men from the inner detail. And make sure Clara rides in the lead car.”
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“Boss, are you sure about this?” Luca protested. “You’re still recovering from a near-fatal dose of—.”
“I’m fine, Luca,” Gabriel interrupted, swinging his legs out of bed with effortless strength. He stood up, grabbed a fresh black dress shirt from the walk-in closet, and buttoned it with cold, deliberate precision. “My house was poisoned by my own blood. It’s time to clean house.”
