Chapter 6 - The New OrderThree weeks later, the penthouse on the fifty-eighth floor looked entirely different.
The oppressive paranoia that had hung in the air like smog had been swept away. The board of directors had held an emergency summit two weeks prior; with Vincent’s treason fully exposed via the forensic audits and Dr. Vale’s comprehensive confession, Gabriel Moretti’s grip on the syndicate was stronger and more absolute than it had ever been.
Vincent was currently awaiting trial in a maximum-security federal penitentiary, facing life without parole. Dr. Vale was cooperating with federal prosecutors in exchange for a slightly reduced sentence, dragging half a dozen corrupt politicians down with him.
And me?
I had officially retired from Midwest Private Care, taking a massive severance package that Gabriel’s legal team had personally delivered to my apartment—enough to fund my own independent trauma response consultancy network across the Midwest.
On a clear, crisp Friday afternoon, I stood in the grand foyer of the Moretti penthouse, reviewing a final set of post-operative recovery charts on my tablet.
Gabriel walked out of his private study, wearing a sharp charcoal suit that fit his powerful frame perfectly. There was no trace of the pale, fever-wracked patient I had met three weeks ago; he looked every bit the feared, untouchable king of Chicago’s underground.
Except when he looked at me.
“The physical therapy report looks clean,” I said, handing the tablet to him without looking up. “Your lumbar plexus has fully healed from the micro-incision trauma. No residual nerve damage, no paralysis risk.”
Gabriel took the tablet, setting it down on the entryway table without glancing at the screen. He stepped closer, stopping just inches away.
“You’re auditing me like a patient, Clara,” Gabriel noted, a warm, low amusement in his voice.
“Somebody has to,” I retorted, meeting his dark eyes. “You’re the worst patient I’ve ever treated.”
“And you’re the only person in this city who ever looked past my name and saw a man bleeding on a bed,” Gabriel said softly, his voice losing its customary edge, replaced by something entirely unguarded.
Before I could formulate a dry response, the private elevator chime chimed pleasantly, and the doors slid open.
Luca Ferraro stepped out carrying a massive, elegant bouquet of white orchids—and a stack of legal documents tied with a red ribbon.
“Boss, the maritime shipping manifests for the port expansion have cleared federal oversight,” Luca announced, then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw us standing close together in the foyer. A slow, knowing grin spread across Luca’s bruised face. “Ah. Am I interrupting a medical consultation?”
“You’re always interrupting, Luca,” Gabriel said without breaking eye contact with me, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“My shift ended twenty minutes ago, Mr. Moretti,” I said, stepping past Gabriel toward the elevator. “And my consulting agency has a dozen new clients to vet.”
Gabriel didn’t try to stop me. He just walked with me to the elevator doors, his presence warm and steady beside mine.
“My door is always open, Clara,” Gabriel said quietly as the elevator doors slid open, revealing the pristine, mirrored interior. “For business... or otherwise.”
I stepped inside, turning around to face him as the heavy doors slowly began to close, separating our worlds once again.
May you like
“Save the charm for the board of directors, Gabriel,” I said with a small smile. “I only deal in hard facts.”
The doors clicked shut, locking away the penthouse, the mafia empire, and the chaos of the past month. But as the elevator smoothly descended fifty-eight floors down to the glittering streets of Chicago, I knew that whatever came next, I would never look at a patient—or a dangerous man—the same way again.
