Chapter 3 - Anatomy of a TrapThe realization hit me with the crushing weight of a collapsing building. The gala, the crowded donors, the shattered windows—it hadn't been a random street crime or a warning shot directed at my real estate empire. It had been an assassination attempt masked as crossfire, designed to eliminate the one person in this world I loved unconditionally.
“Secure the perimeter,” I barked, ignoring the fresh spike of pain in my side as I tried to stand up from the gurney. “Malcolm, I want every camera from Fourth to Eighth Avenue pulled within ten minutes. Find out who rented the black sedan.”
Before Malcolm could answer, Tessa stepped directly into my line of sight, blocking my exit from the trauma bay. Her expression was hard, stripped of any bedside manner.
“You are bleeding onto the floor, Mr. Calder,” she said evenly, pointing a finger at the widening red drop pooling beneath the examination table. “Unless you want your sister to attend your funeral instead of the other way around, you are going to lie back down and let me stitch this muscle tissue back together.”
I stared at her, my jaw tight. “My sister’s life was just targeted by a professional hitman. I don't have time to lie down.”
“You don't have time to bleed out either,” she countered, her voice matching the steel in mine. “I patch you up. You live. Then you can go wage your war. Those are your only two options right now.”
For a second, we stared each other down—two stubborn forces colliding in the sterile quiet of a hospital room. Then, realizing she was entirely right, I slowly lowered myself back onto the mattress.
“Do it quickly,” I muttered.
She didn't waste a breath. As she local-anesthetized the wound and began the delicate, painful work of suturing the torn flesh, June walked into the room. My sister looked pale, wrapped in a foil emergency blanket, her eyes wide with shock.
“Rafe…” she whispered, rushing to the side of the bed and gripping my hand. “They weren't shooting at the foundation display. The bullet shattered the pillar right behind my chair a split second before it hit you. You threw yourself in front of me.”
“I’d do it again,” I said quietly, squeezing her hand back.
Tessa worked in silence, her hands steady and efficient, stitching the wound with a calm focus that seemed entirely immune to the high-stakes tension vibrating around us. When she cut the final thread and applied a clean bandage, she finally looked up at June, then back at me.
“Whoever is after your family didn't send an amateur,” Tessa noted quietly. “That was a high-velocity round fired from an elevated position. Standard rooftop placement.”
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I looked at her sharply. “You know ballistics?”
“I worked combat trauma overseas before I took a desk job in a city ER,” she replied casually, tossing her bloody gloves into the biohazard bin. “You learn to recognize what kind of monster leaves a mark.”
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