Chapter 3 - The Shadow Over Lakefront
Luca steered the battered, bullet-scarred Escalade into a nondescript commercial garage beneath an abandoned warehouse near the Chicago River. The heavy steel roll-up door rattled shut behind them, plunging the space into dim, yellow incandescent light. Dust motes danced in the beams of the SUV's headlights.
Gus’s vehicle arrived thirty seconds later, its front grill smashed and steam hissing from a punctured radiator. Gus stepped out, his face streaked with soot, a smoking weapon in hand. He swept the perimeter before jogging toward Luca’s door.
“Two down, one ran,” Gus reported, breathing heavily. “They weren't common street muscle, Luca. They were Viktor Petrov’s personal enforcers. They had military-grade hardware.”
Luca stepped out of the SUV, his expression grim. “They knew Tommy was hit, which means they were watching the hospital. And when they saw my vehicle leave Lakefront, they tracked us.”
“Boss, the girl—” Gus began, eyeing Nina with sharp suspicion as she climbed out of the passenger side.
“She’s a civilian,” Luca cut him off sharply. “And she’s an emergency room nurse from Lakefront. If Petrov’s people saw her get into my car, her apartment is already burned. She can't go back there.”
Nina stood frozen against the dented door of the Escalade, the reality of the situation crashing over her like icy water. “Wait. What are you saying? Burned? My entire life is in that apartment! My cat, my clothes, my father’s watch—”
“Gus, send two men to extract anything essential from her apartment immediately,” Luca ordered, completely ignoring her outburst. “Secure the perimeter, grab her identification, and clear out before Petrov’s cleanup crew realizes the apartment is empty.”
“Wait a damn minute!” Nina marched up to Luca, poking a finger squarely into his broad chest. “You don't get to dictate my life! I don't know who you are, I don't care what mafia war you’re running, and I am not your prisoner!”
Luca looked down at the finger pressed against his chest. For a moment, Gus flinched, as if anticipating violence. But Luca merely raised his eyebrows, then held out his injured arm. The blood had soaked through his charcoal coat, dripping steadily onto the concrete floor.
“You’re right,” Luca said evenly. “You’re free to walk out that garage door into the alley. Of course, Petrov’s spotters are currently sweeping the surrounding five blocks for anyone connected to this vehicle. A woman in blood-stained hospital scrubs wandering down Elston Avenue won't last ten minutes.”
Nina glared at him, her chest heaving. She looked at the blood dripping from his arm, then at his cold, unblinking eyes. “You’re an arrogant, dangerous bastard.”
“I’ve been called worse by better people,” Luca countered smoothly. “Now, are you going to lecture me on ethics, or are you going to fix this arm like the professional you claimed to be?”
Nina ground her teeth together. “Get inside. Find me hot water, clean towels, and a first-aid kit that isn't twenty years old.”
Ten minutes later, Nina was seated on a metal stool inside the warehouse’s makeshift office, cutting away Luca’s tailored sleeve with trauma shears. The wound was deep, an ugly three-inch gash caused by a sheared bolt from the door mechanism rather than a bullet. It had missed the radial artery, but it was pouring blood.
“No local anesthetic,” Nina warned, cleaning the area with antiseptic wipes she found in a surprisingly well-stocked field surgical kit. “This is going to hurt.”
“Do it,” Luca commanded without flinching.
Nina picked up the needle driver, loading a curved suture needle with black nylon thread. Her hands, which had trembled in the car from low blood sugar, were now rock-steady. The familiar rhythm of suturing took over. With practiced, mechanical precision, she approximated the torn edges of his flesh, throwing neat, square knots.
Luca watched her face as she worked. Her brows were furrowed in fierce concentration, a single drop of sweat tracing the curve of her cheek.
“You’re remarkably calm under fire, Nina,” he noted, his voice lowering so only she could hear.
“I told you,” she muttered, pulling the fourth suture tight. “Faces lie. Hands don't. When someone is bleeding on my table, panic doesn't stop the hemorrhage. Action does.”
Luca leaned back slightly, his dark eyes studying her features with an intensity that made her pulse flutter in her throat. “Who taught you that?”
“My dad,” Nina replied softly, snipping the thread. “Henry Kowalski. He spent thirty years fixing Chicago transit buses with busted knuckles and diesel in his pores. He raised me alone after my mom died. He always said that people who talk the loudest are usually the weakest, and the only thing that proves a person's worth is what their hands build—or fix.”
Luca went utterly still. For several long seconds, the only sound was the hum of the fluorescent fixtures overhead.
“Henry Kowalski,” Luca repeated, the words tasting strange on his tongue.
Nina looked up, surprised. “You knew him?”
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Before Luca could answer, the office door flew open. Gus stood in the doorway, his face pale and grim.
“Luca,” Gus said urgently. “Lakefront Mercy just called the burner line. Tommy took a turn for the worse. And there’s someone inside the hospital trying to finish the job.”
