Chapter 4 - Breaking the Fortress Rules
“Luke!” I roared, my voice carrying down the hallway with enough force to rattle the antique chandeliers.
Within ten seconds, heavy footsteps thudded against the hardwood floor, and the door flew open. Luke stood there with his sidearm drawn, scanning the room for threats, only to freeze when he saw me sitting up in bed with a gun in my hand and an injured, weeping young woman huddled beside me.
“Jesus, Danny,” Luke breathed, lowering his weapon slowly. “What happened?”
“Forget the questions,” I snapped, my tone brooking no argument. “Get the private physician here. Now. Not an ambulance, not a clinic—bring Dr. Marcus directly to the estate through the back entrance. And bring my medical kit.”
Luke took one look at Emma’s blood-stained blouse, nodded curtly, and disappeared down the hall without uttering a single word.
For the next twenty minutes, the heavy silence in the bedroom was broken only by Emma’s shallow, ragged breaths. I didn't put the gun away; instead, I tossed it onto the nightstand and reached across the mattress, my large, calloused hand hesitantly resting against her shoulder. She flinched at first, then leaned instinctively into the touch, seeking whatever warmth she could find.
“You’re an idiot, Emma,” I said softly, the harshness in my voice undermined by the tremor in my chest. “Working two jobs, hiding an internal injury, collapsing in my hallways—what did you think was going to happen?”
“I thought... I thought I could make it until the end of the month,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “My mother’s facility sent a final notice. If I don't pay the balance, they’re going to discharge her into state care. And you know what that means.”
I did know. In Chicago, state care for memory patients was a slow, agonizing sentence.
When Dr. Marcus arrived twenty minutes later accompanied by a grim-faced Luke, he immediately set to work on the bed, cutting away the ruined fabric of Emma’s uniform to expose a deep, infected surgical tear along her left flank. He administered a local anesthetic, cleaned the wound with practiced precision, and began restitching the torn tissue right there on my mattress while Luke held a surgical light.
“She needs at least three weeks of absolute bed rest,” Dr. Marcus announced quietly as he packed his instruments into his leather case. “If she keeps pushing herself like this, her internal organs are going to fail. She’s running on pure adrenaline and sheer willpower.”
“She stays here,” I said instantly, before Dr. Marcus could even pack his stethoscope.
Luke raised an eyebrow. “In the main wing, Danny? The staff quarters are downstairs—”
“I said here,” I repeated, my voice dropping into a lethal register that brooked no debate. “Move her things into the guest suite adjacent to my study. And hire round-the-clock home care for her mother—pay whatever it takes to secure the best facility in the state, billed directly to my personal accounts.”
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Emma, groggy from the pain medication Dr. Marcus had administered, blinked her heavy eyes open and looked up at me. “You... you don't have to do that.”
“Shut up and sleep, Emma,” I replied, pulling the heavy wool blanket up over her shoulders. “You work for me now. And I am a very demanding boss.”
