Chapter 4 - The Poison in the Blade
By four in the morning, the clinical wing of the Russo estate was dead quiet, save for the rhythmic, steady beep of Gabriel’s cardiac monitor.
His temperature had dropped to ninety-nine point four degrees, his respirations evening out into the deep, restorative cadence of natural sleep.
I had washed the blood from my forearms, changed into a fresh pair of surgical scrubs from the supply cabinet, and sat curled in a leather wingback chair beside his bed, holding a warm porcelain cup of chamomile tea.
The heavy double doors opened without a sound, and Marco stepped inside carrying a manila folder stamped with a red wax seal.
“He made it through the woods?” Marco asked in a hushed whisper, looking at his unconscious boss.
“The drainage tube is working,” I replied quietly. “The toxic agent didn't enter the pleural cavity. He’ll survive if he stays on continuous intravenous antibiotics for five days.”
Marco nodded once, pulling a small glass vial containing a drop of dark amber residue from his jacket and handing it to me.
“Our chemist in Brooklyn just analyzed the scraping from the assailant’s dagger,” Marco said, his jaw tightening with cold fury. “It’s a synthetic neuro-blocker mixed with ricin-derived ricinine. It wasn't designed to kill him instantly; it was designed to induce multi-organ failure twelve hours after the attack.”
My breath caught in my throat. “That’s a military-grade biochemical cocktail. Who has access to that kind of compound?”
“Only one organization in this state,” Marco answered, opening the manila folder and tossing three black-and-white surveillance photographs onto my lap.
I looked down at the images.
The first photograph showed a sprawling waterfront shipping terminal in Red Hook, lined with dozens of blue steel cargo containers bearing the crest of Vance Maritime Logistics.
The second was a shot of a middle-aged man with slicked-back gray hair and a sharp, aristocratic profile, stepping into a limousine outside Manhattan City Hall.
“Senator Julian Vance,” Marco said, spitting the name like poison. “Chairman of the State Port Authority, and Gabriel’s primary rival for control of the transatlantic freight lanes.”
“A United States Senator ordered a biochemical hit?” I gasped, clutching the tea cup with both hands.
“Vance isn't just a politician, Miss Shaw,” Marco explained, leaning against the examination counter. “He runs the private logistics syndicate that moves foreign contraband through the eastern ports. Gabriel blocked his expansion into Brooklyn last month. Vance decided to eliminate the problem before the primary elections.”
“Then take this evidence to the federal prosecutors! Call the Department of Justice!”
Marco let out a bitter, mocking laugh that made the skin on my arms prickle.
“The regional federal prosecutor is Vance’s first cousin, Emma. The city belongs to people who sign the warrants, not people who follow the laws.”
Right then, a faint, gravelly voice broke through our conversation from the bed.
“Marco,” Gabriel called out, pushing himself up onto his elbows despite the drainage tube pulling against his side.
“Boss, you need to rest,” Marco rushed to his side, adjusting the pillows.
“I’ve rested enough,” Gabriel muttered, swinging his long legs over the side of the hospital bed, his eyes clearing with razor-sharp consciousness.
He looked over at me sitting in the leather chair, his gaze lingering on my face with an intensity that made the air feel thin.
“How long was I out, Emma?”
“Six hours,” I answered, rising from the chair to check his IV flow rate. “And you shouldn't be sitting up. The internal fascia needs at least forty-eight hours to granulate.”
Gabriel ignored my medical advice, standing up slowly on his bare feet. He swayed slightly, but caught his balance on the chrome IV pole, towering over me in the quiet room.
He looked down at the photographs of Senator Vance resting on my chair.
“Vance believes I am currently dying in an anonymous clinic,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into that chilling, lethal timbre that commanded legions of men.
“He sent his cleaning crews to Miss Shaw’s apartment complex three hours ago, Boss,” Marco added quietly.
My heart stopped beating. “What?”
Gabriel snapped his head toward Marco, his gray eyes flashing with terrifying, volcanic rage. “What did you say?”
“Vance’s mercenaries raided her Queens apartment at two in the morning,” Marco reported, keeping his head bowed. “They kicked the door in, tore the place apart, and set fire to the living room. Our perimeter sentries intercepted two of them on the roof, but the building had to be evacuated.”
I dropped onto the rolling stool, my hands flying to my mouth as cold tears spilled down my cheeks.
My home.
My mother’s hand-painted ceramics, my father’s medical encyclopedias, my entire quiet, honest life had been incinerated in the dark because I had done my job in curtain four.
Gabriel stared at me weeping on the stool, his hands slowly clenching into fists so tight his knuckles cracked like gunshots.
He walked over to me, sank down onto one knee on the cold linoleum, and took my trembling hands into his large, calloused palms.
“I am sorry, Emma,” Gabriel whispered, his voice carrying a depth of raw, humble reverence that no one in New York had ever heard from him.
“I have nowhere to go,” I sobbed, looking down at his scarred chest. “I have nothing left.”
May you like
Gabriel lifted my chin with his thumb, forcing me to meet his fierce, unyielding gaze.
“You have this house,” Gabriel declared with the absolute authority of an emperor. “You have two hundred men who will die before they let anyone touch a hair on your head. And starting tonight, Senator Vance is going to discover what happens when you burn down my queen's sanctuary.”
