Chapter 3 - The Pulse in the Dark
Enzo crossed the room in two long strides, dropping to his knees beside her regardless of the dark crimson stain spreading across the pale rug.
"Claire," he said, his voice stripped of all its usual authority, reduced to a raw, ragged plea.
She was bruised, her dark hair tangled and matted with blood running from a laceration above her temple. Her face was pale, the skin stretched tight over high cheekbones, her lips parted in shallow, wheezing breaths that sounded like dry leaves scraping across pavement.
Ray appeared in the doorway behind him, sliding his weapon back into its shoulder rig and unlatching the heavy metal medical case he carried. "She’s breathing, Boss. But she’s concussed, internal bleeding is likely, and she’s losing blood fast from that head wound."
"Fix her," Enzo commanded, his fingers gently tracing the side of her jaw, feeling for the frantic, erratic pulse beneath her skin. Even battered, bruised, and broken, the striking symmetry of her face remained—the sharp jawline, the long lashes, the exact woman Rosa had described with such breathless enthusiasm. The woman who was supposed to be sharing a chianti with him right now.
"I’m on it," Ray said, dropping beside Enzo and snapping open the medical kit. He pulled out gauze, a saline wash, and a pressure bandage, working with the clinical detachment of a field surgeon who had patched up a hundred soldiers of fortune. "Ricky! Angelo! Sweep the perimeter! Whoever did this couldn't have gotten far if Sadie ran all the way to Lombardi's. Check the back alleys, the garages, the old rail spur."
"Already moving," Angelo’s voice crackled over the comms earpiece.
Enzo carefully slipped his arm beneath Claire’s shoulders, lifting her slightly to help Ray secure the pressure dressing. As he did, her eyes fluttered open—just a fraction. Dark, clouded with pain and shock, staring up at him through a haze of agony.
"Who..." she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. "Who are you...?"
"It's Enzo," he said, his voice dropping into an intimate, steady hum meant to anchor her to reality. "Rosa sent me. I'm the blind date who never showed up on time."
A faint, ghostly shadow of a smile touched the corner of her bruised lips, instantly replaced by a wince of pure agony as Ray tightened the bandage. "You... you're late," she breathed out, before her eyes rolled back and she slipped back into unconsciousness.
"She’s stabilizing, Boss," Ray said, pressing a oxygen mask over her face and hooking up a portable IV bag. "We need to get her to private care. Dr. Althaus. Not a hospital—too many questions, too many reports for the city to sweep under the rug. If the scumbags who did this find out she survived, they’ll finish the job."
Enzo gently lowered Claire’s head back onto a clean pillow he'd pulled from the bed. He stood up, towering over the ruined room, his face settling into that terrifying, dead-eyed expression that made even his most hardened capos step back.
"Take her to the clinic," Enzo instructed, his voice flat as winter ice. "Take Sadie with her. Make sure both of them are locked down behind three inches of reinforced steel."
"And you, Boss?" Ray asked, looking up from the medical kit.
Enzo reached down, picking up a heavy silver cufflink that had been wedged beneath the overturned dresser. It bore a distinct, embossed monogram: V.K.
May you like
Viktor Krovnikov. The Bratva lieutenant who had been trying to muscle in on the North Docks shipping lanes for the last six months.
"I have a dinner reservation to keep," Enzo said softly, slipping the cufflink into his pocket. "And I believe it's time to introduce myself to the neighborhood."
