Chapter 7 - A Debt Repaid in Blood
By noon, the rain had turned into a torrential downpour, washing over the gleaming glass monolith of Ashworth Tower in the center of the financial district.
Inside a high-end private medical suite on the fourteenth floor of an affiliated private hospital—one of the few facilities not directly monitored by Marcus's men—Marin stood over Gabriel, carefully tying off the final sutures on his shoulder. She had obtained proper surgical supplies using five thousand dollars in cash from a discreet private physician who asked no questions when he saw the Ashworth crest on Gabriel's watch.
"You have six hours before the local anesthetic wears off completely," Marin said, cutting the thread with surgical scissors. "After that, it's going to feel like someone shoved a red-hot poker into your scapula."
Gabriel flexed his fingers, testing the range of motion. "It'll do."
He stood up and walked to the mirror, pulling on a bespoke dark navy three-piece suit that had been delivered by a terrified, loyal valet whom Gabriel had contacted via a secure landline. As he adjusted his silk tie, the change in his demeanor was terrifying. He was no longer the broken man dying in tidal mud; he was the King of the Harbor, radiating absolute, lethal authority.
He turned toward Marin, who was washing her hands in the basin. She was dressed in simple, clean clothes—black slacks and a dark wool coat—her hair pulled back into a neat braid.
"Why did you really come with me?" Gabriel asked quietly, standing behind her reflection in the glass. "You could have taken Delphine and the money and vanished into the Midwest. You would have had a clean slate."
Marin turned to face him, wiping her hands on a paper towel. "Two years ago, Marcus’s legal team bribed the state medical board to alter the blood tox report for the Mayor's nephew. The boy had enough fentanyl in his system to drop a horse. But Marcus wanted a lucrative city transit contract, so he buried the truth and claimed I gave him the wrong medication. They destroyed my life with three paragraphs of legal lies."
She took a step closer, looking up into his storm-gray eyes. "I don't care about your money, Gabriel. I want my name back."
Gabriel reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing against her jawline. The touch was unexpectedly tender, a stark contrast to the violence surrounding them.
"You will have your name back, Marin," he said softly, his voice a binding oath. "And anyone who spoke a lie against you will beg for your mercy before this day is done."
A knock came at the door. Gabriel’s loyal driver, an elderly man named Thomas who had served his father for forty years, stepped in with a leather briefcase.
"The board has assembled on the penthouse floor, Mr. Ashworth," Thomas said, bowing his head respectfully. "Marcus has thirty private security guards posted at the elevators. He believes you are dead."
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Gabriel picked up his heavy wool overcoat and slung it across his shoulders. He turned toward Marin and extended his right arm.
"Shall we go crash a coronation, Miss Doyle?"
