Chapter 5 - The Terms of the Fortress
The fire in the library was burning high now, the thick pine logs crackling as they cast long, dancing shadows across the leather-bound books and the heavy mahogany desk. Lorenzo sat in his large leather chair, his collar open, a fresh bottle of single-malt scotch open between them. He hadn't offered Clara a glass; she was still standing by the fireplace, her hands tucked into the pockets of her plain dress, her posture steady despite the fact that her knees were shaking from the adrenaline hangover.
"Six months," Lorenzo said, setting his glass down with a slow, deliberate motion. "That’s what you’re telling me? You can have her standing in six months?"
"If we begin the intensive manual stimulation four times a day," Clara said, her voice clear and precise. "And if we replace her current chemical regimen with a high-dose localized neuro-vitamin complex. She doesn't need heavy sedatives, Mr. Moretti. She needs to feel the pain of the nerves waking up. If you keep her numb, the brain will continue to treat the lower limbs as amputated tissue."
Lorenzo leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he studied her through the amber light of the fire. "And what do you want for this miracle, Dr. Halloway? A million dollars? A new clinic in Switzerland? My lawyers can clean your record in New York within thirty days if the signature is on the right piece of paper."
"I don't want your money, Mr. Moretti," Clara said, turning her head to look at the flames. "And I don't want my license back. The medical board in Manhattan is filled with men who care more about their endowments than the children in their wards. I don't want to go back to that world."
"Then what do you want?"
Clara looked back at him, her gray eyes matching his for pure, unadulterated iron. "I want your word that while I am treating your daughter, no man from your organization will use his weapon on this property. I want this house to stop being a fortress for a gang wars and start being a hospital for a seven-year-old child. If I hear a single gun shot, or if I see another man brought into the basement checkpoint with blood on his collar, I walk out the front gate, and you can go back to buying wheelchairs from Germany."
Lorenzo let out a short, dangerous bark of laughter, standing up and walking toward her until he could see the reflection of the fire in her gray pupils. "You’re asking a mafia don to turn his home into a sanctuary, Clara? Do you know who is currently sitting at the Newark shipping docks? The Lucchese family has three freighters coming in from Palermo next week. They want my berths. They want my warehouses. If I lower my guard for twenty-four hours, the next bomb won't be under a car—it will be through that window."
"Then move her," Clara said, her voice never wavering. "Move her to a safe house. Or clear the perimeter. But as long as she is under my care, her neurological system cannot be subjected to high-grade cortical stress. Every time you scream at your men, or every time she hears a security siren, her cortisol levels spike, and the neural regeneration path closes. You are killing her legs every day you keep her in this war zone, Lorenzo."
He stood close enough to touch her, his dark face inches from hers, his breathing heavy with the scent of scotch and woodsmoke. For a long, agonizing second, Clara thought he might reach for the gun again.
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Instead, he reached out, his long, scarred hand catching the heavy silver key that hung from his watch chain—the key that opened the private safe containing the encrypted ledgers of his entire eastern seaboard operation. He tore it off the chain with a sharp twist and dropped it into her hand.
"This opens the basement server room," Lorenzo whispered, his voice a low, gravelly promise that made her throat tighten. "The guards answer to whoever holds the key when I am not on the property. You have your sanctuary, Dr. Halloway. But if my daughter isn't standing by the first frost... I will personally ensure the media’s name for you becomes a reality."
