Chapter 2 - An Offer Refused
"Hand me the vial," Carmine said, his voice tightening into a dangerous hiss. "Salvatore, she is an outsider. She knows our names, she knows our business, and now she is holding evidence from a closed family matter. We don't let witnesses walk away with leverage."
I closed my hand around the glass container, slipping it instantly into the deep front pocket of my faded blue scrubs. My heart hammered violently against my ribs, but my hands remained rock steady. Working on combative pediatric patients with sharp needles had taught me early on that fear is an invitation to be bitten.
"I am a licensed medical practitioner, not your associate," I snapped, meeting Carmine's furious glare. "This is biohazardous surgical waste removed from a patient under my care. It belongs in a certified pathology lab or with legal authorities, not in the hands of someone who looks like he's about to vomit all over a Persian rug."
Salvatore let out a low, rough rumble from his chest—a sound that, after a second, I realized was a genuine laugh. It was the first time in nearly a decade his jaw didn't seize with agony when he smiled. "She has more spine than half my captains, Carmine. Stand down."
Carmine sneered, turning on his heel to pace across the room. "You trust too easily when your mouth stops hurting, Sal. You're getting weak."
"Pack your instruments, Doctor," Salvatore instructed gently, ignoring his brother completely. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a thick envelope of manila paper, sliding it across the desk toward me. It was significantly heavier than the ten thousand dollars his men had offered me that morning. "There is fifty thousand in here. Consider it a retainer. My driver will take you back to your clinic, and two of my men will sit outside your door tonight."
"I don't want your guards outside my clinic, Mr. Lombardi," I replied, packing the curettes and mirrors into my leather carry-case. "I took this job to pay my late father's overdue property taxes, not to enlist in an organized crime syndicate. What I want is to go home, write my post-operative notes, and pretend I spent my afternoon doing a routine wisdom extraction on a quiet accountant."
"A quiet accountant wouldn't have kept his mouth shut about the metal," Salvatore pointed out, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made the room feel suddenly ten degrees warmer. "You didn't hide the X-ray, Lena. You looked right at my brother and knew something was wrong. You're already involved, whether you like it or not."
Before I could reply, the heavy mahogany doors swung open. Salvatore's personal driver, a quiet giant named Marco, stepped into the room holding a black umbrella. "Car is ready, Boss. Storm is rolling in from the harbor."
May you like
Salvatore nodded toward Marco. "Take Dr. Russo back to Bellhaven. Ensure she reaches her apartment safely. If a single hair on her head is disturbed, do not bother coming back."
I grabbed my kit and left the study without looking back at Carmine. But as I walked down the grand marble staircase, the reflection in the gilded mirrors showed Carmine watching me from the landing above, his face twisted in venomous calculation.
