Chapter 5 - The Sanctuary of the North Side
The private medical suite beneath the Costello shipping terminal near the mouth of the Chicago River did not look like a mob safe house. It was a fully equipped, state-of-the-art emergency bay, lined with stainless steel counters, high-intensity surgical lamps, and three separate ventilators that Dominic had purchased through an international medical supply company in 2025.
Fiona worked for four hours without speaking. She had stripped off her wet scrubs, replacing them with a clean pair of green hospital cottons from the supply cabinet. She washed the rust and the amber residue from Arthur’s neck; she initiated a continuous intravenous flush of calcium gluconate to neutralize the neuromuscular blockers remaining in his tissue.
Dominic stood in the corner of the room, his long legs stretched out against the tiled floor, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't interfere. He watched her move with the mechanical, beautiful precision of a woman who had spent her youth fighting the clock in the city’s busiest ER.
By seven in the morning, the monitor above the bed emitted a steady, rhythmic beep that carried a healthy, ninety-five percent oxygen saturation level. Arthur’s chest rose and fell with a natural, unassisted depth, his long lashes resting peacefully against his cheeks without the twitch of a seizure.
“He’s clear,” Fiona said, setting her stethoscope down on the counter with a soft clink. She wiped a strand of dark hair from her forehead with her forearm, her eyes carrying the deep, structural exhaustion of the night. “The toxin was water-soluble. The flush cleared the remaining esters from his liver. He’s going to sleep for twenty hours, but when he wakes up, the spasms will be gone.”
Dominic stood up from his chair, his massive frame towering over her in the sterile light of the surgical lamps. He walked over to the counter, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a fresh, cream-colored envelope—this one twice as thick as the first.
“Your contract is extended, Fiona,” Dominic said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that sent that same involuntary shiver down her spine. “There’s a quarter of a million dollars in that envelope. It’s for the next six months. You don't go back to Northwestern. You don't go back to your apartment on the South Side. You stay with my son.”
Fiona looked at the envelope, then looked up into his icy blue eyes, her chin lifting with that same defiance that had kept her alive on the wall.
“I don't take bribes from criminals, Mr. Costello,” she said softly. “I took the job because the boy was dying. He’s not dying anymore. If you want me to stay, it’s not going to be because of a check. It’s going to be because you give me the names of the people who supplied Harrison Reed with those spinal needles.”
May you like
Dominic’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening until the muscle near his ear turned white. “The needles came from a pharmaceutical supplier in Cicero. A man named Moretti. Why do you want his name?”
“Because he didn't just sell them to Reed,” Fiona said, stepping closer until the scent of his expensive bergamot and dark leather surrounded her again. “The lot number on the shafts matches a shipment that was stolen from Northwestern’s pediatric oncology ward last winter. He’s been selling contaminated gear to private clinics all over the West Side. If you want to save your boy, Dominic, you have to clean the whole street. Not just your house.”
