Chapter 3 - The Summons
The private recovery room on the top floor of St. Ambrose Mercy Hospital smelled of antiseptic and ozone. Julian sat up against the propped pillows, an IV line taped to the back of his right hand, a heavy white bandage wrapped securely around his midsection.
Outside the door, the low-frequency hum of armed guards pacing the hallway signaled that his inner circle had arrived.
The door clicked open, and Marcus, Julian’s chief enforcer and right-hand man for over a decade, stepped inside. Marcus looked like a man who hadn't slept in three days, his suit rumpled, his eyes bloodshot.
"The hit squad from the O'Connor family," Marcus reported without preamble, pulling a leather-bound notebook from his jacket. "We wiped them out at the dock warehouse an hour after you got away. Their operation is finished. But boss... you took a serious risk walking into a public hospital like that."
"I needed trusted hands, Marcus," Julian said, his voice flat, raspy from the intubation tube. He looked toward the corner of the room, where Patch was curled tightly on a blanket brought in by the veterinary rescue unit. "And I needed to be close."
Marcus followed his gaze to the scarred gray shepherd. "That animal hasn't moved an inch since we brought you in. He tore the sleeve off a resident who tried to take your pulse without permission."
"He's loyal," Julian murmured. "More loyal than half the men sitting in my boardrooms." Julian paused, his dark eyes shifting back to Marcus. "Tell me about Wren Ashby."
Marcus stiffened slightly, a shadow crossing his face. "Wren? Boss, she’s still serving her sentence at Millbrook. Three more years on a ten-year stretch. She works the infirmary, keeps her head down. Why are you bringing her up now?"
"Because seven years ago, I let an innocent girl take the fall for a murder my enemies committed," Julian said, his tone dropping into a register that made Marcus look away. "I told myself it was strategy. I told myself that if I intervened, the cops would dig deeper into our operations. But every time I looked at Patch—every time I remembered how that dog watched over her orphanage before I rescued him—I knew I was a coward."
"Boss, you're a mob boss, not a saint," Marcus said cautiously. "If we reopen the Marisol Cade case, if we prove Wren was framed, the feds are going to start asking questions about the south side docks. It opens up a hornet's nest."
"Let it burn," Julian said, his jaw tightening as a sharp pain flared near his stitches. "Get our best fixers on it. Dig up the original trial transcript. Find the corrupt detective who planted those keys in her locker—Detective Miller. I want his confession on my desk by tomorrow morning."
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Marcus stared at him for a long moment, realizing there was no arguing with the boss once his mind was set. "Consider it done. What about Wren?"
"Get her out of Millbrook," Julian commanded softly. "Quietly. Bring her here. It’s time she learned the truth about who really protected her—and who really sold her out."
