Chapter 3 - The Ghost of 14th StreetThe temperature in the bedroom seemed to drop twenty degrees in a single heartbeat.
The heavy, exhausted vulnerability that had softened Desmond’s face moments before vanished, replaced by an expression so dark and frigid it made my blood run cold. This wasn't the man who had suffered a muscle spasm in the dark; this was the apex predator of Chicago’s underworld, stripped of his mobility but possessing a mind like a razor-sharp guillotine.
“Where?” Desmond asked. The word was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of an executioner's axe.
“South Chicago, down by the old rail yards,” Frankie reported, stepping fully into the room and keeping his eyes glued to the floor. “One of our scouts spotted him trying to buy a fake passport under an alias. He’s locked in the basement of the warehouse on 14th Street.”
Desmond’s hands gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, his knuckles turning chalk-white as he fought against the paralysis that kept his lower body dead to his commands. The sheer frustration of his immobility flashed across his face—a brief, agonizing flicker of raw helplessness that he crushed immediately with iron willpower.
“Get the transport van ready,” Desmond commanded, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “I want him awake, I want him breathing, and I want him begging for a quick death by the time I get down there.”
“Boss,” Frankie hesitated, glancing uncomfortably in my direction. “Maybe you shouldn’t... I mean, the doctors said your autonomic stability is still fragile after last week’s infection. We can handle the interrogation. We’ll bring you the tape.”
“No,” Desmond snarled, his slate-blue eyes locking onto Frankie with a terrifying intensity. “Nobody touches him until I look him in the eye. That son of a bitch took my legs, and he’s going to watch me take everything else.”
I stood frozen beside the bed, my medical training screaming at me to intervene.
He’s unstable. His blood pressure spiked forty points twenty minutes ago. If he gets into a high-stress confrontation right now, he could suffer a massive stroke.
Before my brain could stop my mouth, I stepped directly into Desmond’s line of sight.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
Frankie gasped audibly, his eyes widening as if he expected me to burst into flames on the spot.
Desmond slowly turned his head, his icy glare fixing on me. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” I said, crossing my arms and standing my ground. “Your blood pressure is unstable, your nervous system is recovering from a severe spasm, and you’re talking about rolling out into a damp, freezing warehouse at four in the morning to play Godfather. If you leave this estate right now, you’ll probably code before you even reach the van.”
“Harper,” Desmond warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Back down. This is none of your concern.”
“It is my concern when my patient tries to commit medical suicide!” I snapped back, refusing to back down. “I am legally and ethically responsible for your health while you are under my care. If you leave this room, I will call every federal marshal and local precinct in Illinois and report you for non-compliance, and I’ll personally lock you in this bedroom myself.”
The silence in the room was so thick you could have sliced it with a scalpel.
Frankie looked like he was about to faint, alternating his terrified gaze between a furious mob boss and an utterly unhinged nurse.
Desmond stared at me, his chest rising and falling in harsh, controlled breaths. For a second, I thought he was going to order Frankie to throw me out the window or lock me in the cellar.
Instead, a strange, dark fascination flickered across his face.
“You really have a death wish, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice dangerously low.
“No, Mr. Gallagher. I have a medical degree and a stubborn streak that outlasts yours.” I stepped closer, leaning down so I was eye-level with him. “If you want to interrogate the man who bombed your car, you are going to wait until sunrise, you are going to let me administer your morning stabilization meds, and—if your vitals are stable—you are going to let me roll you into that van and accompany you every single second of the way.”
Desmond’s eyes narrowed. He looked like a caged wolf weighing whether to attack or accept the terms.
“You want to come to a cartel-level interrogation?” he asked, a grim, sarcastic smile touching his lips. “You think you have the stomach for what happens down on 14th Street?”
“I worked the trauma ward at Cook County on Saturday nights for three years,” I shot back without blinking. “Trust me, your little basement thugs don’t scare me half as much as a drunken guy with a switchblade in the waiting room.”
Desmond let out a sharp breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
He turned to Frankie.
“You heard her,” Desmond said smoothly. “Clear out the warehouse. Make sure the heat is running. And get the medical kit ready.”
Frankie blinked, completely bewildered, before nodding stiffly. “Yes, Boss.” He turned and hurried out of the room, muttering something under his breath about nurses losing their minds.
Desmond looked back up at me, his expression turning solemn.
May you like
“If you come with me, Harper, you stay behind my chair. You don’t speak unless I tell you to, and the moment I say leave, you run. Understand?”
“I’m not your hostage, Desmond,” I replied, turning toward the door to grab my jacket. “I’m your keeper. Let’s go see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
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